


Crowley's Angels

by Davechicken, ElDiablito_SF



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dirty Talk, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Stripper!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 11:36:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Novak has been disowned by his father. His best friend Dean Winchester works at an establishment which provides fine - intimate - dancing. Will Cas be able to find his inner diva? And how will he cope when he discovers that his new boss, the enigmatic Mr. Crowley, has a voice like whisky and liquid sex?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crowley's Angels

**Author's Note:**

> The lovely manip is taken from this [perfect example of humanity](http://pakost.deviantart.com/art/Jeans-136114037).

Bloody _Hell_. Literally. It wasn’t enough that Lucifer had left (and he’d been one of the biggest draws to the club, not that Crowley would ever admit as much aloud) - and left under a cloud - it was the cheek of the leggy bastard opening up his own venue not two blocks away. ‘Hell’ he’d called it. Of course he had, the arrogant little shit. And now Crowley was struggling to compete with his ridiculous gimmicks and cheap tricks. Crowley was a purveyor of fine entertainment: good, old fashioned routines and good old fashioned boys who shook their behinds and brought in the money.

Except… less money, recently, and Crowley was beginning to feel the pinch. He was worried about how much longer he could keep his club - ‘Crowley’s Angels’ - in business. He smiled at them and told them to work hard and gave them each their wage packet at the end of the night, but deep down… he was worried.

So when the eldest Winchester - Dean - said he had a brilliant idea for some fresh blood to reinvigorate the club… well. He didn’t have anything to lose.

Although he wasn’t sure how much he had to _gain_ , either. The man Dean dragged in was reasonably tall (but still was dwarfed next to Dean’s beanstalk of a brother, Sam) and he looked pretty enough (all tousled dark hair, electric blue eyes and a mouth that Cupid himself must have kissed into place), but he could tell by the way he walked and held himself that he was no dancer. For God’s sake, the man slouched like he wanted to skulk in the shadows and stepped into the club like he thought the floor would burn his feet clean off.

Crowley tried very, very hard not to let his distaste show. He was always mortally offended when someone came in and judged him and his boys. It was an honest living, and one they enjoyed and which gave pleasure to the great unwashed masses… so what was the harm in it, at the end of the day?

“So. This is your friend, Dean?” he asked, perched at the bar at the back of the club, smiling a smile that didn’t reach the eyes.

“Yeah, this is Cas. Castiel.” Dean pointed at Sex Hair and gave Crowley a perfunctory grin. “I know he’s not a big fashion guru, but trust me, he’s got what it takes underneath that coat.” Dean wiggled his eyebrows at Crowley, earning a bewildered look from his silent friend.

“Mr. Crowley,” Cas - Castiel, whatever his name was - nodded in Crowley’s direction. “I don’t know what Dean has told you about me, but I assure you, we’ve never been intimate.” For some reason that seemed like pertinent information to convey.

“Well, I won’t judge you on that,” Crowley said, but what Dean had implied made him wonder. Perhaps he could work with it… somehow? “Take off the coat, darling, let’s see what we’re buying.”

Castiel moved awkwardly, but managed to shrug out of his coat. He undressed in a purely mechanical way, slipping out of the sleeves and folding the coat over his arm. Dean took it from him, and Cas almost flapped and then just… lifted his arms up and dropped them again.

Christ, thought Crowley, don’t do me any favours. He swirled a finger around, urging Cas to twirl and show off his assets. 

After a brief pause, Cas seemed to work out what was required and he twirled slowly and arrhythmically on the spot, keeping his eyes away from all the other members of the dance troupe who were observing from the wings.

Well, thought Crowley, he certainly had a nice ass on him, he’d give Dean that. Very tight and shapely, and the hint of calves under trousers… he could work with all of that. What he couldn’t work with was the lifeless, soulless way the man moved.

“You don’t want to be here, do you?” Crowley asked him. “You’ve come for money, not for love. What is it? College tuition? Gambling debts? Drugs?”

Castiel shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged his shoulders much in the same awkward way he’d shrugged out of his coat.

“Family issues,” he replied tersely.

“Cas’ dad is a huge…”

“Asshole,” Castiel interrupted Dean’s outburst. “He’s an asshole. Let’s just leave it at that. And yeah, money makes the world go around. And I need it.” He looked up at the proprietor of the esteemed establishment, eyes full of a particular fire and a wisdom that went far beyond his apparent years. “Mr. Crowley, I know I’m not a born… um… dancer. But I’m willing to work hard for you. And Dean told me you were an exceedingly fair boss.”

“Alright. Dean’s a good kid. If he sees potential in you… we’re not going to judge you based on your family, just on your moves. Why don’t you go get Kevin to play the song of your choosing and show us what you got? Pick something… pick something that’s _you_.”

Castiel moved over to the DJ booth and whispered something into the ear of the kid with the huge headphones hanging around his neck. The kid, Kevin, gave him a strange look and mumbled something that sounded to Crowley alarmingly like ‘It’s your funeral’.

The music began, building slow and steady, some kind of a rock ballad that Crowley wasn’t familiar with.

Cas began to sway, hips circling slowly, until the musical crescendo suddenly broke into a raucous scream of “COME! BREAK ME DOWN! BURY ME, BURY ME! I AM FINISHED WITH YOUUUUUUUUU!!!!” at which point the undulation of his body became more erratic and Crowley had to wave at the DJ booth to kill the cacophony. Kevin cut it off just as the voice screamed over the speakers “LOOK AT MY EYES!!! YOU’RE KILLING ME, KILLING ME!!!”

Castiel stopped abruptly and looked around the room, seeking some kind of an explanation from Dean with a consternated glance. Dean was no help, since he was very obviously trying not to laugh, his face turning crimson from the effort.

Crowley’s face was… it wasn’t sure what it wanted to do. Possibly cry. Possibly laugh. Most certainly he did not approve, and he’d not heard such a cacophony of teenage, angsty rebellion since the days of… well a few years ago, now, let’s be fair.

“...thank… you…” he grit out past his teeth, and then he glared at Dean until the other man met his eyes. And then he indicated with a jerk of his head that Dean was to follow him into the wings beside the stage. “I will… need to discuss this matter with Dean.”

Dean gave Cas what he hoped was his most reassuring look and a wink and followed Crowley, trailing close behind him with a slumped head.

Crowley waited until they were both out of sight - but unfortunately not out of ear-shot - before he launched into Dean. “What the hell were you thinking, you buffoon? What the hell was that? How am I supposed to make _that_ work? Christ, Dean, I know we’re struggling but do you want to turn us into a laughing stock? This is a BUSINESS not a CHARITY…”

“CAS IS HOT, OKAY?!” Dean shouted back, and quickly shooting a look behind him, lowered his voice to a hot whisper. “Look, Crowley, I hear you. He’s a… his game could use some work. But I’ve seen people around him. They swoon for him. He’s got the It factor, man! The girls want him, the guys… want him too. Just… teach him how to dance a little better, don’t let him pick his own music, and it’ll work out. I _promise_ you.”

“He looks like… he looks about as lifelike as those poles Balthazar makes love to. Jesus. We could probably stand him at the back and turn him into one, for all the good it’ll do. We’d do better putting him in chaps and having him serve vodka shooters from a water pistol than dancing on the stage, Dean. I just… I can’t…” His hands shook in front of him, throttling some imaginary (or not-so-imaginary) person. “FINE.”

Crowley stormed back out in front of the stage, adjusting his cuffs. “Alright. I need a volunteer to take Chuckles the Clown here on and turn him into a Sex God. Any volunteers?”

Surprisingly, every hand in the room shot up. Crowley frowned at them. Apparently Dean was… onto something with the ‘It’ factor. “You know what… none of you have what it takes. I’m just going to have to do it myself. Sam, Dean: you two get to work on that twisted chair routine you were pitching. Gabriel: if you don’t have something new for me by the end of the week I’m going to confiscate half your wardrobe. Everyone else: you know what I want. So get to it.”

He turned to look at Cas. “You… you come with me.”

“Does that mean… I’m hired?” Castiel asked, sounding half-confused and half-offended. He looked over at Dean, who gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up and walked out of the room with his extremely tall brother in tow.

Crowley walked out, expecting Cas to follow him to the practice hall up the stairs.

***

The practice room had a hardwood floor and mirrors all down one wall. A stereo system off to one side with speakers through the room and it was clear that Crowley took the theatricality of the performances seriously by the amount of space and light this room had. He led Castiel into the middle of the room, and made him stop facing the mirrors.

“Now… God knows how we’re going to do this…” He paced around, looking him over from head to toe. “You’ve been graced with an exceptional body, Cas, I’ll give you that. But you don’t seem to know what you’re working with.” Crowley bit his lip, trying to work out how… how…

“I guess we start from the very beginning.” A very good place to start, his mind added quietly as he went over to the stereo system. He crouched down and flicked through songs, trying to find something that spoke to him… ah. Yes. A few more button presses and the low thrumming beat started to kick in. ‘Ooh La La’ seemed fitting enough.

He stood a little off to one side. “Now… listen to the percussion. Let it reach in and beat in time with your heart… don’t think about me, just think about _you_. I’ll come later. First you need to realise the _potential_ in you. That beast that wants to chase some pretty little thing down and fuck it senseless. Hold onto that thought… and dance like you’re screwing…”

“I…. dance like… okay.” Cas did close his eyes because this whole thing, this situation he had somehow gotten himself into, it was preposterous, and if he was going to actually make it work, it was clear he’d have to become someone else. Not Castiel Novak, son of the airline tycoon, Joshua Novak. 

He tried to listen to the beat, to move with it, just as Crowley had told him. He knew he wasn’t unattractive - there wasn’t any reason to be coy about it. But he’d never really known exactly what to do with it. Much like his father’s money, his face had always been a bit of a burden. It was just another wall between him and a potential partner. Another shallow surface. How could he ever know that they actually liked him for him, and not for the shiny veneer of the Novak family fortune? In a way, being cut off from his trust fund had been a blessing. And he could think of very few things that would have pissed his father off more than finding out the heir to his empire was taking his clothes off and having dollar bills shoved in his g-string at Crowley’s Angels.

“How am I doing?” he asked eventually, still keeping his eyes closed.

“Better,” Crowley said, eyes never once leaving the gyrating young man. “But you’re still acting like you think someone might shout at you… like you think at any minute the music’s going to stop and you’re going to have to stop with it… if it cut out right now you should just carry on to the sounds inside your head…”

Nothing else for it, he thought, and paced behind him. He didn’t normally like to get his hands dirty in any way (his dancing days were long since gone, no one wanted to see someone like him prance across the boards), but he was just going to have to make an exception in this case. He placed a hand on each of his hips, guiding the sway wider, longer, making him work for his money. “Remember… it’s a seduction. You want them to believe you’re dancing for them, and only for them… you want them to believe that they have a chance of taking you home, of riding that train all night long…”

A small moan escaped Cas’ lips, causing his eyes to fly open. Luckily, the man had been behind him and didn’t see the stricken deer in the headlights look. He didn’t know what the hell had come over him, but with his eyes closed, and hands brushing softly against his hips, and that _voice_ , Jesus Fucking Christ and all that was holy, it was like sex and chocolate rolled up in a blanket of bourbon. He’d gotten incredibly turned on, and that was, _holy shit_ , very unprofessional. He forced himself to think of his grandmother naked before Crowley noticed the bulge in his pants, and tried to concentrate on swaying to the music again.

Crowley noticed the sudden - stutter - in Cas’ movements, but he recovered quickly and seemed to… yes. _Yes_. He was getting it, at last, his movements fluid and wanting, not mechanical and forced. “ _Better_ ,” he purred, right against his ear. “Everyone who sees you is going to want you. Everyone who watches you is going to be begging you to dance closer to them, so they can brush their fingers over your stomach when they push those bills into your too-tight pants…” 

Crowley very much wanted to pull the man back against him - to show him how hard he was going to make everyone - but he was supposed to be professional about this. He wasn’t supposed to play favourites, and he wasn’t supposed to use his dancers for personal reasons. It had been one of his rules, it was written in their contracts (which Castiel had not yet signed…) because if his boys wanted to have their fun with the clientele - for money or just for kicks - then he wouldn’t stop them. But he ran a high-class joint, and he wasn’t going to reduce himself to the level of a pimp. No matter _what_ Lucifer thought was a ‘reasonable business model’.

So he bit his lip and didn’t let the new boy feel how interested he was… and just let his hands follow the snaking of his hips. The song faded down, and Castiel carried on swaying, just as he’d been told.

Crowley should let go. He should. He followed those hips until they stilled, and then he stepped back and let go. His mouth was suddenly dry, and he walked over to the stereo again. “You’re getting there,” he said, eyes anywhere but on him. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

Castiel had to clear his throat before responding, hoping he wasn’t actually as red as he felt. “Ahem…. thank you, Mr. Crowley.” He supposed he should say something else. Here was this man, doing him a very obvious solid and for once it wasn’t because he was currying favor from his father. But surely, it wasn’t because Castiel had earned it either. Perhaps he was doing it for Dean. Everyone liked Dean, after all. “I won’t let you down, Sir,” he added, eyes trailing off towards the mirror because he still wasn’t sure he could really meet his new boss’ gaze, not after the woody incident of a few minutes ago.

“Just call me Crowley,” he said. “You don’t need to stand on ceremony with me.” Now… those clothes were not designed for stripping, and they weren’t going to come off easily enough. He eyed him thoroughly - just to get a feel for his size - and wandered off to the wardrobe. He picked out a suit as the least… blazingly out of character thing he could find and came back with it.

“Put this on. The clothes you’ll be wearing to dance in are designed to come off easily. You’re going to have to get used to not splitting them open and pulling them off when you want to. I hope you’ve got your best tighty whities on, Cas…”

“Um… thanks…. they’re… tighty blackies, or whatever.” It was weird discussing his choice of underwear with his boss, but then again, he supposed, he’d have to get used to a lot more intimate conversations along the same vein. Dean, for one, had no problem discussing his and other people’s jock-strap problems in gory detail. But Dean had always been a lot more _easy_ about this type of thing.

They had met at his own birthday party. One of his sisters thought it would be hilarious to hire him a male stripper. When Dean had first arrived, Cas thought he really was the police, and ended up forcing some of his friends to flush about a an ounce of coke down the toilet. They might never have forgiven him, but somehow, Dean had become his friend upon hearing that story. And it wasn’t because Cas had been a generous tipper - no, the tipping was strictly on Anna, his aforementioned sibling.

“Should I just…?” Cas motioned to his clothes and looked over at Crowley who had been watching him with a certain amount of exasperation. “Right.” He began to pull off his slacks.

“You know, you’re going to drive some of our ladies wild with that…” Crowley didn’t know how best to phrase it. “...whatever it is you have. I don’t know how you can manage to be simultaneously sexy as fuck and dorkish like a brat. I bet you still have a line of teddy-bears at the bottom of your bed and matching pyjama top and bottoms, don’t you? Sort of all Christopher Robin…” He shook his head in dismay. It really was a mess. “But the men? The men will eat you _alive_.”

“I don’t… um… exactly have a bed right now,” Cas muttered, trying not to think too vividly about getting eaten alive. “I’ve been sleeping on Dean’s floor.” He didn’t _have_ to sleep on the floor; Sam had made it perfectly obvious that he’d be more than happy to share his bed with Cas, for example. But he wasn’t about to repay Dean for his kindness by boning his little brother.

“Daddy really _did_ do a number on you, didn’t he? Horrible things, families. They do nothing but fuck you up. Sam and Dean are the… well they’re the only two people I know who are related who don’t hate their family’s guts. Did I get the right size for you?”

They were tight, really really tight, those pants, and had countless little snaps along the sides of the legs (presumably for easy removal). Cas shifted in them, trying to see if he could still feel his own balls. 

“I don’t know - are they _supposed_ to fit like this?”

Crowley bent a little to adjust the lie of the clasps, making the sheer fabric cling in all the right ways. Oh, Dean, you did bring me a present after all. His hand lingered a little too long and he pulled it back, trying to look as though he’d meant to do that all along. “Oh _yes_ ,” he purred, his voice low with barely-hidden _want_. “I told you, kitten, they’re going to _devour_ you with their eyes and minds the minute you swagger that cute little ass of yours out on the stage… oh you’re going to make us all _very_ rich…” 

He paced back over to the sound system and picked the next song out. Better pick something he might actually know, to stand him in with a chance of making the performance believable. It was from Gabriel’s line-up, but that didn’t matter. A bit of Gaga was good for the soul. He pressed go and let the queen of freak start to work her magic. “Come on… make me _want it_ ,” he purred.

The problem was, Castiel realized, he _wanted_ Crowley to want it, which was an entirely different kind of mind-fuck than he had been accustomed to. It was completely ill-advised, inappropriate, and five different flavors of otherwise wrong. But he needed this gig, and if he had to pretend to seduce his boss (while secretly actually wanting to seduce his boss), then so be it.

He began to move to the music, his body hitting the heavy beats hard, mouthing along to the words, because he knew them (how could he not know them? Cartman on _Southpark_ knew them!). “Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah, Roma-ro-ma-ma, Gaga-ooh-la-la, want your bad romance.” This wasn’t hard; this was fun. Closing his eyes again and sinking into the beat, he let his hand run down his own chest, trailing over his gyrating abs, lower towards his crotch, which he pointed like a loaded gun towards Crowley and bit his lip.

“You know that I want you,” Cas mouthed, “And you know that I need you. I want your bad, _bad_ romance.”

This was a very bad choice of song for Crowley’s continuing sanity, although he assumed it would be an excellent choice for performance if Gabriel wouldn’t claw his eyes out for stealing it. There had to be ten years between them. Maybe he wasn’t _quite_ old enough to be his father, but it was still borderline. What was the kid, early twenties? God he hoped so. Maybe he should ask Dean.

He was fairly sure that she didn’t actually sing ‘vertical stick’ but that’s all Crowley could hear and feel right now. Very much vertical. When he let go, he let go and Crowley could imagine that it would translate to the bedroom, too, because he looked like he could ride a man like a pony and still walk away with that swagger and… _stop thinking about his ass, Crowley, stop wanting to grab hold of it and…_ He was going to need a cigarette after this and he hadn’t smoked in twelve years.

By the time it got to the bridge of Gaga bellowing “I DON’T WANNA BE FRIENDS!” at the top of her lungs, Cas had forgotten where he was and what he was doing, throwing his head back with youthful abandon, his neck column exposed and gasping for air mere inches from Crowley’s face. Cas had a grin on his flushed face by the time he finished that quickly turned into a full-bodied laugh. It felt cathartic, that ‘routine’, if you wanted to call it that. For the first time since his father had thrown him out on his ass, he had actually had fun.

Well. Shit.

Crowley couldn’t deny the kid had talent, when he decided to let himself go. Maybe all he needed was the right director… he swallowed down the lump in his throat, his amber eyes roaming over the slightly gleaming dancer. Oh yes. A little bit of oil on those…

...he hadn’t pulled the goddamn clothes off, and Crowley hadn’t even noticed until the song finished. He smirked and put a hand on each of Cas’, guiding them again down to his hips. “You forgot something, you know…” He pushed his fingers between Cas’, pressed with his thumb between Cas’ and his hand, forcing them to close, and tugged. “...weren’t you supposed to be less dressed? I thought that was… a known essential part of being a professional dancer…” 

Crowley, stop hitting on him, he said to himself. Self, this is a very, very bad idea. He’s young, broke, impressionable… and you are being a nasty, filthy old man preying on his daddy issues and empty belly… 

But that didn’t stop him pulling the man against him for old time’s sake, as he ripped the stage-pants clean off his legs and let the two halves fall to the floor.

Cas had to remind himself to close his mouth and make sure his tongue wasn’t hanging out like some dog in heat, panting for it. He looked at his own naked legs and over at the articles of clothing he had just been wearing in front of Crowley’s feet on the floor and said the only thing he thought was appropriate under the circumstances. 

“Right. Thanks.”

Crowley was going to hell. And he didn’t mean that shitty-ass club that upstart Lucifer and his prancing ponies ran, either. He meant the honest-to-goodness fire and brimstone burning for all eternity hell. 

“...how are you at lap dances?”

Hell was very warm. Like his face, right, now. Like the whole damn room.

“Whoo boy!” Cas said, before he even had a chance for his brain to catch up with his cock. “Er… fuck. I mean. This is all very… Yeah. And. I don’t suppose drinking is allowed on the job?” He gave Crowley his most plaintive look and prayed for him to keep his eyes on his face instead of his emerging boner.

“...alcohol is not a good idea when you’re performing,” Crowley said, reluctantly, “although if you need it to get relaxed enough then the odd drink is not so bad. Why… don’t we go wet our whistles and I’ll have Balthazar show you the kind of thing we get up to here…?”

"I.... yeah.... uh-huh," Cas agreed, forcing his eyes away from his boss' mouth. Nice. Really great, he thought, mentally kicking himself. For someone who wanted to dedicate his life to the study of linguistics, he sure knew how to express himself! 

Seeing as Cas was wandering around in a state of undress without realising it, Crowley sighed. Honestly. The kid had the attention span of a goldfish. “...maybe you should grab your pants first.”

“Oh. Yes.” Cas slipped them back on and followed after the boss.

***

Back in the main room the brothers were still doing their thing with their chairs, slamming them and turning them and then slamming them down some more. Sam kept going a little too fast and Dean kept yelling ‘God damnit, Sammy!’ at him. 

Balthazar was sitting at the bar, nursing something fruity with a ridiculous umbrella in. The drink looked almost as flamboyant as he did. 

“So, how is the little cherub holding up?” he asked, reaching over and squeezing his cheeks together.

Crowley swatted at him. “He’s loosening up. Just needs to get the stick from out his arse and he’ll be better than you.”

“Oh, touché, you do know how to treat a girl.”

“Think you can demonstrate a lap dance to Castiel here, whilst I start writing up his contract? Maybe you could show Michael here a good time?” 

“Oh, of course,” Balthazar agreed with a wink and a smile, putting his finger under the other man’s chin and tugging.

“Ellen… make sure Castiel’s kept watered, would you? There’s a girl.”

Ellen’s eyes narrowed at the remark but she nodded and asked him what his poison was.

When Castiel wandered over to where Michael had been pushed, Balthazar was already sitting sideways across his lap, arms around his neck, murmuring softly to him.

He took a sip of his vodka tonic, realizing Ellen did not skimp on the alcohol, and carefully eyed his future co-workers. 

Michael was gorgeous. With his raven hair and bright hazel eyes, he had the face of a 50's cinema icon and the body of a God. Balthazar had a sinfully long neck, to match his long, lean muscles, and a come-hither look on his face that made him look perpetually up to no good.

"Hey," Cas toasted the two men with his drink and congratulated himself again for his eloquence. 

“Hey yourself,” Balthazar said back, lifting himself from Michael’s lap. “Now what’s rule one of Fight Club?”

“Don’t talk about---”

“We’re not in Fight Club,” Balthazar jumped in, shaking his head in dismay. “But rule one is ‘no touching’. That is - them of you. Watch.” He proceeded to grind ever decreasing circles above Michael’s lap, fluttering his eyelashes and generally making an obscenely open show of himself.

Even though Michael was clearly playing the part of the punter in this, he seemed to enjoy the over-the-top display, and he kept reaching to touch a thigh or hip as Balthazar danced ever slower into his lap. Each hand was treated to a slap or was pushed back, until Michael relented and stopped trying to cop a feel.

“You want to make them crazy for you,” Balthazar explained. “Whether you choose to act on it later is up to you, of course, but not _here_. And you never mix business and pleasure. Everyone who crooks their finger at you will expect the next dance to be free… and you’ll be eating ramen for the rest of your life, when you should be eating…” arms draped around Michael’s shoulders, eyes on his, a sudden shunt of his hips that made the other man grunt, “...richer food by far…”

“Right, no touching, and no ramen,” Cas repeated, more to himself than to Balthazar. The guy really knew how to move his ass. Castiel admired people for specific expertise they had in their given field, and it was easy to see Balthazar was quite… gifted. At the mention of food, his stomach gave a small growl and a lurch, which he treated to another long sip of the vodka tonic in his hand. He could do this. He wasn’t a natural flirt, but really did enjoy the attention that he was getting from Crowley earlier, so it shouldn’t be that much different with paying clients. Right?

He looked away briefly, wondering where his new boss had gotten to, and not glimpsing him, he refocused his attention on the show before him.

“You think you’re ready to have a go?” Balthazar asked. He’d noticed Castiel’s wandering eyes, but he was too polite (for now) to mention it. Filed away for later, in case he needed it. 

“I am,” Michael volunteered, grinning. He liked being the demo bunny.

Cas swallowed a lump and looked over at the sitting man. His thighs were spread in a blatant invitation and his chest seemed exceedingly well groomed and lubricated. Even from where he was standing, he could tell the guy smelled like coconut.

He approached Michael carefully, coming into the V formed by his thighs and grinning down at him, admittedly stupidly. Apparently Michael did not mind, however, judging by the fact that he returned the smile generously.

“You probably want to be over my thighs, not inside them,” the devilishly handsome man suggested helpfully, causing Cas to reconsider the entire situation again.

Duh. It was a lap dance. He should probably be in the dude’s lap.

He repositioned himself, determined to try again. He braced himself against Michael with one arm, about to grind down against his lap, when he heard someone clearing their throat behind him.

“I see you decided to get some… practical experience in,” Crowley said, and there was a slight hint of peevishness in his tone that was difficult to ignore. “But if you’ve finished acquainting yourself with young Michael, perhaps you’d like to see the contract I’ve drawn up?”

For some reason Castiel didn’t really feel like examining, he felt embarrassed. He would need to get over that quickly if he was going to actually work at this place, he realized. He smiled sheepishly at Michael, who gave him a friendly wink in return.

House full of ridiculously attractive men and he was hot for teacher? It was clear that Cas had always made terrible life choices. If he hadn’t, he probably wouldn’t be in his current predicament. He would be happily assuming his position as the VP of Operations at his father’s company. Instead… well.

“Yes, let’s go see the contract,” he finally found his voice and the courage to meet his new boss’ gaze.

Balthazar offered his hand - probably to piss Crowley off even more - and helped him back to his feet. “Make sure you read the small print, grasshopper.”

Crowley growled warningly low in his throat, and Balthazar simply swaggered back towards the bar to chat Ellen up some more. He would never get anywhere with that, but it wasn’t going to stop him honing his wit on her, either.

Holding out the contract for scrutiny, Crowley waved them into one of the booths off to the side where hen parties or stag nights would normally take up residence. They’d been scrubbed clean or he’d have never perched on the plush leather (effect) seats. “You want to watch your back around them,” he pointed out. “They’re all stunning… but they’ve been at this a lot longer than you.”

“I don’t understand,” Cas looked up at him from the contract, surprised at how soft and sincere Crowley’s eyes looked. They were pretty too, he thought, like big amber jewels, framed with a canopy of soft, long, dark eyelashes. He must’ve been something else when he did this for a living, Cas thought, then brought his attention back to the conversation at hand. “What are they going to do? Push me off stage or something?” There was much he did not understand about stripping. And hot guys.

“They’ll break the fingers and the shins of anyone who crosses you,” Crowley explained, “but then they’ll claw your eyes out in jealousy if they take against you. Performers can be… vicious. Especially when they’re basically out there selling their… ahem. Ego. And a new, fresh set of buns getting all the bills? You’ve got to see how that could be hard for someone who has worked their ass of at this for months or even years…”

“But I don’t want to steal their thunder or… whatever,” Cas replied, feeling sincerely confused. Dean was his friend, and by proxy, all of Dean’s friends were his friends. He just wanted to shake his ass, make enough money to move out of Casa Winchester, and mind his own business. Oh yes, and really get his dad’s goat. But other than that, he didn’t have any insidious life goals.

“You won’t have to try. You’re new. You’re…” his eyes narrowed. “...innocent. They are going to lap you up like cream. And even if you _don’t_ want everyone to love you, that will make them love you all the more. You’re screwed any which way, and your only hope is to become jaded and boring enough to not be hated…” Perhaps this was bad advice. Very bad advice. But Crowley didn’t want to see things happen to Cas which… would be bad. And those things would be very, very bad. 

Cas had already reached for the pen, when Crowley’s monologue made him stop and frown in growing consternation.

“Wait… you _want_ me to be jaded and boring?”

“...I’m not trying to scare you off. I just… would you sign the bloody contract?”

Cas looked down at the contract again. It was pretty clear, as far as legalese went. And quite generous too, taking into account his considerable lack of experience and lackluster ‘audition,’ if you could even call it that. There was no signing bonus, so the termination clause was also fairly open ended. He could always leave. Yeah, that’s it. He could leave. It was fine. It was going to be fine. He swallowed and signed his name by the X.

There. Done. Partners, now. Business partners. No: employee. One of the flock. One of the chorus of prancing, preening angels. Crowley nodded and rolled his copy of the contract up and secreted it in one of the inner pockets of his suit jacket. “Well, I’m glad that’s settled. So you’re not going to be ready for your debut appearance for a while… shall we say you ply punters with alcohol for a week and liberate them of their hard-earned money? You can train with the boys to get used to the group numbers, and we’ll sort out a solo or a duet for you… gonna have to be something special. Something we can sell…”

Crowley was clearly imagining various possibilities, from the way his eyes glazed over suddenly in thought. Good possibilities. Intriguing ones. 

“That sounds good. Thank you, Mr… um… Crowley.” Cas wondered what the man’s first name was. It felt weird calling him just ‘Crowley’ but then again, that was probably the least bizarre thing he’d have to accept as the norm around here if he was going to be an Angel.

“I told you Cas would work out,” Dean had come up from behind Crowley, a rather smug expression on his face. He must have finished the insane-looking chair routine with Sam. He slung an arm around Crowley’s shoulder in an overly familiar way and leered at Cas in a way that he’d never done before. “Hey buddy, you’re gonna need a stripper name,” Dean declared. “What do you think, Crowley? Something even more exotic than goddamn Castiel?”

“Yes… hmm…” He tapped the pen against his teeth, mouth open as he considered it. He didn’t realise how obscene he was being, truly.

“How about… Ang--- no, too obvious. Antonio?”

It sounded so… Cas could simultaneously imagine an Italian composer and a Latin lothario.

“It’s fine,” he said. Nothing was ever going to sound as ridiculous as he actual name. He suspected his parents were probably coming off a long acid trip when they came up with it, and, knowing his parents, he wouldn’t be surprised.

“You’ll still be Cas to us,” Dean reassured, as if reading antipathy in Castiel’s face. “It’s just for the stage announcements and the lap dances.”

“Yeah, sure. It works. When do I start?”

“Go see Ellen… she’s going to love having you as her helper for a week… and then Dean can show you the outfits for the big numbers, can’t you darling?”

“Sure thing, gorgeous,” Dean flirted shamelessly, and motioned for Cas to follow him backstage.

***

Dean was also kind enough to take Cas shopping. For stripper clothes. Not exactly the future he envisioned when he told his father he’d rather be studying extinct languages for the rest of his life than be in charge of mergers and acquisitions of defunct airline companies. But he didn’t take well to ultimatums, so when his father gave him one, he didn’t really think that hard about his future when he walked out of the house with just the clothes he had on his back (which happened to be one of his old suits and a trench coat).

“So, what’s Crowley’s deal?” Cas asked, arms brimming with g-strings and (Lord help him) glitter. “He’s obviously not from around here.” What Cas was trying very hard not to say was that his language kink was very fond of his new boss’ accent, and that everything Crowley mewled into his ear sounded like the most excruciating kind of foreplay.

“He’s actually been in Miami for many years,” Dean responded, continuing to hold ridiculous things up against Cas’ chest and then tossing them into the shopping cart. “He used to dance at that old place by the Palms. You remember? The Crossroads?”

Cas did not remember. 

“Yeah, it was more like your dad’s strip joint, I guess,” Dean shrugged.

“My dad wouldn’t have gone to a gay strip joint,” Cas pointed out, but Dean simply pursed his lips and pressed something that was barely there against his chest.

“Well, anyways, he danced there for many years. They called him the King of the Crossroads.”

“He must’ve been really good,” Cas said in what he hoped was his most nonchalant voice.

“Good enough to make a small fortune and retire from dancing himself,” Dean winked. “That’s gonna be me some day,” he said a bit wistfully. “Only I don’t think I’d be good enough to run my own club. I’ll just take that money and maybe start an antique car body shop or something.”

“You’re very good with your hands,” Cas said, earning an ass-pinch from Dean and trying his best not to look shocked.

“You know, you don’t have to keep sleeping on my floor, Cas,” the dirty-blond Sun God leaned against one of the counters.

“I like the floor. Good for my back,” Cas insisted, wondering what was actually wrong with him when two of the hottest Angels were basically spreading their sheets for him, and all he could think about was what it would be like to get taken from behind while Crowley recited the alphabet into his ear. 

This whole thing was going to be a lot more complicated than he had bargained for.

***

Crowley had to hand it to his boys, they certainly knew what they were doing. And Cas was slowly getting the hang of the joint numbers, even if he did keep bumping hips with Michael. Crowley wasn’t sure which of them was to blame for that: if it was Michael, then the little swine was doing it on purpose and he’d have to rap his knuckles later. After they’d punked him with the ‘which of the Village People do you want to be’ they’d settled down for the minute. 

(Although Crowley sort of wished it had gotten as far as Castiel wandering down in an outfit even if he would have been mortified when the rest of them were wearing _much_ more attractive black leather studded affairs.)

As the routine ended, he walked up in front of the stage, clapping slowly (but genuinely). “Not bad, but Sam you are _still_ too fast. Less of the extra-shot no-whip, alright?” 

Then he fixed his eyes on Cas (oh, who was he kidding, he’d been barely capable of looking at anything else all night). “You still need to pick your debut piece, amongst other things. Follow me…”

Cas tried not to look as eager as he felt as he hopped off the stage to follow Crowley up stairs. He could always attribute his excitement to the anticipation of his debut, he supposed, but nevertheless, he needed to get a grip, and the sooner the better. Perhaps he should take one of the other dancers up on their offer. Surely, getting off with a hot guy like Michael, or Sam, or even Dean (though Cas wouldn’t want to ruin their friendship like that) would help him concentrate on his work and not sprout a boner every time Crowley said something provocative, like’“Hello boys,’ or ‘Follow me.’ Damn his dirty mouth.

Crowley waited until they were half way up the stairs before he said anything else. “Have you thought of a song, yet? I think it should be something… thematic. You know. Something suitably angelic. It’s the brand, you see… and especially for your…” not virgin, not virgin, not… “...debut… it should be… something to remember.” Well done. 

Cas honestly had no idea what the hell Crowley just said because all of it sounded like ‘Lick me, suck me, fuck me’ to him.

“So… I …. yeah,” he finally stammered, trying desperately to replay Crowley’s _actual_ words in his head. “You know, I’m not… I don’t usually listen to dance music. I’m sorry.” He picked at his nails and avoided Crowley’s eyes. “It sounds like you have a very specific thing in mind,” he added, hoping to cover up for the fact that he was very clearly not paying attention to the conversation earlier.

Dumb as fuck, Crowley thought, but pretty as fuck too. Although the silence after Cas finished speaking went on a little longer than he would have liked, before he realised that, possibly, he was supposed to continue to contribute to the dialogue, and not just wonder if he looked so guilty when you pushed him into---

“I know the perfect song,” he said, going for ‘I was deep in sensible business thought’ and not ‘deep into your ass in my head’. He cleared his throat and went back to the stereo, flicking until he found it (at the top of the playlist where he’d left it). “Listen to this and see what you think,” he suggested, and cued up a song by Oakenfold. 

There was a long introduction, during which Crowley felt his cheeks getting hotter. He hoped to hell that Cas would approve of the song he’d picked to be ‘him’, and was starting to feel a little self-conscious about how blatant it was. Work. It was work. Always work.

_Send me an angel_  
Send me an angel  
Right now, right now… 

Cas closed his eyes, just like the first day in Crowley’s practice room, and let the waves of the music permeate his brain and trickle down into his muscles. At first, he simply bobbed his head to the music, an involuntary smile on his lips through the long electronic intro. By the time the first stanza kicked, one of his legs had developed a mind of its own, bouncing his hips side to side. Before long, he could feel his entire body letting go, from his head to the tips of his toes, he twirled around like a disco ball, grinning like a kid in the candy store. When the music stopped and he opened his eyes, he realized that he had danced all the way to the opposite side of the room. 

He grinned at Crowley in a way that he could once again only describe as _stupidly_. For fuck’s sakes, the man probably thought he was mentally underdeveloped, considering he could barely string two words together in his presence.

“Um…” he said, once again congratulating himself for proving his own point. “Yup. Good.” Fucking hell, Castiel. 

“Well I think we both agree we’ve found your song,” Crowley snarked, though in fairness he’d enjoyed the mindless prancing. It was very pretty prancing. “Now… should we work on the routine for it or do you think you need to work on your lap dancing skills? Because those are where the big money is, you know…” 

Pick your tongue up off the floor. Tongue off the floor. Tongue back in mouth. For fuck’s sakes, Castiel!

“I… We….” _Shitfuckhell, Cas._ “So we practice for those?” Holy shit, he didn’t know how he would be able to keep it together. It was difficult enough not to turn into primordial goo, and that was _without_ Crowley offering him his _lap_. He was going to get fired. That much was certain.

“Well we don’t take it for granted, Cas. It’s an artform, you know. You can’t just sit on someone and wiggle and hope for the best, no matter how fuckable your face is.” Shit. That was a normal thing to say, when you manage professional dancers. Yes it was. Crowley went to grab a chair and dropped it in the middle of the room. Song. Yes. He needed a song. A good, sexy song. For sexy dancing. 

Cas felt his face burning up. He needed to somehow redeem his inner idiocy and fast. He couldn’t lose this job (not before his father even got wind of it - sweet revenge came first).

“Do you have any Massive Attack?” he asked Crowley quickly. “If you want to, you know, go with a theme, there’s a pretty sexy song on the Mezzanine album. Angel? Do you know it?” 

So not _just_ a pretty face after all. Either Dean had been schooling him off-book, or he just happened to have some taste. He’d much rather the latter. “Indeed I do, though I’m surprised you do. Pleasantly so, I must add…” 

It was on the iPod somewhere, took a bit of digging but… yep. There. Crowley wondered why Cas thought it was sexy, and immediately had images of him using it as a backing track and wished he hadn’t thought along those lines. 

It did, at least, control his mood a little when he sat down and lifted his chin with a ‘come hither’ look that would melt lead.

Cas bit his lower lip and eyed Crowley from across the room, his own hands on his hips, as if he was trying to solve an electrical problem, not prepare for a lap dance. Crowley looked so imperious sitting in that chair, Cas would have gladly crawled over to him on hands and knees. _And_ there was that unfortunate twitch in his pants again. He was super-hosed.

 _Damn_ but the song he had picked was hot. But it was supposed to be, therefore he had made the right choice. Cas slowly stalked over to the chair and braced each of his legs on the opposite sides of Crowley’s thighs. He exhaled deeply and began to slowly sway, leading with hips, letting his shoulders follow, as he lowered himself, excruciatingly slowly over his boss’ lap.

“Am I doing this right?” he asked, voice sounding raw and savaged to his own ears. Fuck, he was going to die _and_ get fired.

Doing it right? Any more and Crowley was going to tell him it was a good job they didn’t need birth control. Fuck’s sake. His hands wanted to be all over him, wanted to slide up from the curve of his ass over the bow in his back and up to his shoulders to tug his head down for sweet nothings. Wanted to grind up into him - _into_ him, with all possible entendres multiplied at least thrice - and then throw him to the floor and screw him until his legs shook. ‘Doing it right’ indeed.

“You’re getting there,” is what he said instead, though his voice was strained to his ears as much as Cas’ was. Christ. If he leaned in maybe he’d be able to feel if… 

...stupid music ground to a halt and Crowley hadn’t thought to set it to play anything else. Which meant he had a lap full of Castiel and nothing to dance to. And his heart hammering loud enough to be a backing track anyway. Fuck.

Cas’ hands were around Crowley’s neck because, after all, Balthazar said they were allowed to do the touching, and he was just contemplating running his fingers through his boss’ soft hair when the music stopped. He swallowed hard, feeling his Adam’s apple bob in an exaggerated convulsion, and tried very hard not to pout. He braced his legs against the floor and pushed off of Crowley’s lap, thanking God and all the Saints that the song had only been a little over six minutes. He might have just jizzed his pants otherwise, and then where would he be? 

“Any pointers?” Cas asked, mouth parched like desert. 

Lots, Crowley thought. All pointing one way. “You… you could… do some breathing against ears… that’s always hot… uh…” Christ on a bike. “And your hands. You could use your hands some more. But not too much, because you… you want to leave them still wanting…” There. That sounded reasonable.

He sure as hell was still wanting.

“Uh-huh,” Cas swallowed again. He wanted Crowley to keep talking. It was so very ill-advised, but also so very _ffffffffuuuuuccccccckkkkkk_. “Like this?” And then he, like the brazen-ass motherfucker that his sister claimed he was, ran his hands through his boss’ hair, just like he’d been thinking about doing, and repositioned himself in his lap. You know. For practice.

Oh _shit_. Crowley’s eyes closed as he tilted his head back into those hands, craving more touches, more fingers brushing over his scalp and before he could remember it was against his own house rules, he had his hands on the other man’s hips. “ _Yessss_ ,” he hissed, the sound dragged out and groaning, because that was precisely what he wanted. “Just like that.”

Cas looked down at the hands on his hips, forehead brushing gently against Crowley’s, and the image of Balthazar playfully slapping Michael’s hands away came to the foreground. He supposed he should probably have moved Crowley’s hands away. Is that what was expected? Was this a test? Would Crowley be mad at him if he just left them there? They felt so warm against his skin, he just…

He exhaled again, so close to Crowley’s ear that perhaps the other man thought he was doing exactly what he had suggested, taking pointers, except… Cas’ boner had sprung up entirely uninvited and, much like an unwanted guest, ruined the entire party.

“Fuck,” Cas muttered, and tried to scramble off his boss’ lap before the other man noticed anything. There was no graceful way out of the situation, but he’d rather have Crowley think he wasn’t comfortable with his hands on him, than _the other way around_.

Well… damn. He should probably not have touched him. Cas was right to jump off, and Crowley cursed himself under his breath for his stupidity. “You… you might want to work on a way to get hands off you without… jumping off,” he suggested, instead, and abruptly got up and removed the chair so he didn’t have to think about it any more. “But otherwise… good.”

Cas wanted the earth to literally open up and swallow him whole.

“Thanks, I’ll… keep it in mind,” he said and dashed down the stairs before he could do any further damage to his burgeoning new career.

***

Cas’ head was spinning and he hadn’t even taken a single shot. He was breathing heavily, glitter was falling off of him like escapee snowflakes, and his g-string was brimming with hard-earned cash. He hadn’t expected it to feel this way - so exhilarating. But after his first solo, he had to admit, there was more of an attention whore in him than he had ever given himself credit for. 

The other dancers flocked around to congratulate him. Everywhere he turned, he was met with more friendly kisses and even friendlier ass-slaps. Sam pulled him into a bear-hug, which fortunately did not dissolve into more dry humping. Dean was nowhere to be found. Someone had mentioned he was doing a private dance for one of his regulars. Balthazar shoved a champagne flute into Castiel’s hand and toasted him with his own glass.

“To a beginning of a loooooong and fruitful career!”

“Especially fruitful,” Gabriel added, wiggling his eyebrows at Cas.

“Thanks guys,” Cas muttered and drank the champagne, feeling it hit him right in the head, as if he needed to feel more giddy.

He had been the last solo number of the night and the crowds had been extremely generous. Although he hadn’t done any lap-dancing yet, because Crowley said the crowds would have to ‘want it’ enough to pay the as-yet-to-be-determined minimum fee. Which was going to be high, if what he’d been hinting at was anything to go by.

Crowley joined them behind the curtains, a hand on each of them as he passed and a little word of praise for everyone. Until he got to Cas.

He grabbed Cas by the face, pulling him in for a brief just-there peck of lips to lips, before holding him back at arm’s length. “I knew you had it in you, _Antonio_ ,” he smirked. “I bet your g-string was about ready to explode from all those bills, wasn’t it?” He had the perfect excuse to look him up and down before he let go and stood back.

Michael took advantage of his superior height to put an elbow on Crowley’s shoulder. “Not like he _needs_ any more padding.”

Cas’ brain was somewhere in between thoughts of _OMG JFC HE KISSED ME_ and _how soon can I get out of here and furiously jerk off?_ He wished Dean would just give him the keys to the apartment so that he wouldn’t have to wait for him to finish with his private dances before heading off. Also, how furiously could you possibly jerk off when you shared an apartment with two other dancers?

Sam, in the meantime, looked about ready to head off with Gabriel, which usually meant Dean was going to bring someone home. Cas eyed his g-string earnings, wondering if it was enough money to rent himself a hotel room for the night. But it just didn’t sit right with him to blow it all on something as extravagant as his own private bed. My, how far we’ve fallen, he thought, shocking himself by realizing it was his father’s voice he heard in his mind instead of his own.

“Hey pretty baby,” Michael had been apparently eyeing him for some time. He had already changed into his casual attire, which included a pair of jeans that sat so low on his hips that Cas wasn’t sure it wasn’t also part of a stripping costume. “I heard Dean is shacking up with Benny tonight.”

Right. Benny. Cas had heard of him. He was one of Dean’s ‘regulars,’ and apparently Dean had such a soft spot for that bear that he couldn’t bring himself to stop at just the private dances. Cas knew it wasn’t unusual for the Angels to occasionally take their clients home, but he couldn’t imagine that would be a particularly good idea. Right, unlike wanting to _fuck one’s boss_ , his inner demon smirked at him.

“So, you’re welcome to shack up with me,” Michael continued. “If you’ve got no other place to go.” He wasn’t lewd about, just very matter of fact with the invitation, and Cas had appreciated that. He knew Michael took what he liked, and it was flattering to be on the receiving end of that kind of intensity. But he had to be careful about this, keep his wits about himself, and fucking Michael his first week on the job would probably earn him more enemies than friends. 

“I appreciate the offer, man,” Cas said in what he hoped was his most casual voice. “Raincheck?” There. That seemed reasonable.

Michael gave him a wink and a friendly pat and slipped out the back door into the night, the scent of coconut still lingering in the air where he had been standing. Everyone else was filing out as well. Hiding out in the toilet wasn’t the optimal way to kill time in order to cover up the fact that you were totally homeless and planned on spending the night at the strip joint where you worked, however, it was the best plan Castiel had.

He could hear Ellen and Bobby shout their farewells from the front door, the locks turning, and then, he hoped, it was just him and an empty night club. If he had had more of a drinking problem, this could possibly be heaven. But as it happened, he would be lucky to even find some week old jerky around to satisfy his needs for sustenance. Nevertheless, there was a decent (and hopefully clean) couch for him to sleep on in the VIP lounge.

Crowley wasn’t convinced he’d seen Castiel leave, which was strange. Normally he was glued to Dean, but considering Benny seemed to be occupying the space on Dean’s hip that might explain things. Still. Someone would have offered him a bed, he was sure. He’d seen everyone else go (he thought) which meant he could lock the joint up and make sure everything was sorted. Ellen did a good job of the till and bar, and in the morning her kid would come and clean up the rest of the mess, but he always liked to do one last tour of the place and collect his thoughts before he went home, because the noise and the lights always left his head spinning and he needed to decompress before he could even consider sleep.

Which is why he nearly tripped over Cas when he walked through the VIP lounge, and he frowned down at him. “...you forget to go home? You know, dedication to your work is admirable, but even _I_ don’t expect you here 24-7…”

He had been dozing, so the logical response to the initial sound of that voice, was to moan softly in response. He wrinkled his nose and turned towards the sound purely instinctively, and reached out towards Crowley with a sleepy arm.

Oh for the love of… Dean could be a selfish dick at times, Crowley thought to himself. Well, he wasn’t going to throw the kid out on the street, but he also didn’t want to embarrass him by letting him know he was found out.

Although… he went up into the props room and rustled through things until he found a suitable blanket. Okay, so it was pink silk and not really a blanket so much as a flimsy bit of garish fabric, but it was the closest he could do other than smother him in fake furs or chaps and those didn’t make good blankets. So he came back down and carefully draped it over him, trying his best not to wake Sleeping Beauty. 

He had always been a light sleeper and going to sleep on an empty stomach never helped. Still, he had hoped to pass out before the hunger gnawed at his insides too much. He’d deal with finding breakfast later, he figured. But the sudden touch of silk being draped over him was… unexpected. Castiel’s eyes flew open and met Crowley’s.

“Shit. I’m sorry,” he said, scrambling up to a sitting position, running his hand through his tousled hair and acting sheepish in every way imaginable. He thought Crowley had gone home too. What the hell was his boss still doing there?

“No… it’s okay. When Dean gets… let’s just say he’s very good at getting his own way, although maybe he should have let you have the place to yourself for once.” Crowley shook his head in dismay. “You should have said, I’m sure we could have found you a room for the night. It’s not like we don’t all see one another prancing around in the little-to-the-imagination as it is.” Well. Except for him. He was very much _not_ in the altogether. 

“You want me to leave you be? I’ll leave the alarm off overnight, but you’ll have to wait for me to unlock in the morning. There’s plenty of fruit juice in the fridges and there’s probably some hideous bar snacks too…”

“I’ll get my own place soon,” Cas muttered, still avoiding the other man’s eyes. Why the hell was he being so nice to him? Surely Cas hasn’t done anything to warrant that lately. Sure, he did okay for his first solo routine, but his egregious displays of ineptitude earlier were surely still fresh in his boss’ mind. “I really am sorry about this. I’m not very good at…” What? Life? Being normal? He gestured vaguely around the room, hoping Crowley would understand. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and gave Crowley a small smile. “Why are _you_ still here, boss?”

“I normally stay after for a bit. Need to… get the music out of my head. Can’t sleep straight off… never could.” He shrugged. “I’m a night owl, I suppose.” He wondered if he should just… go… or if he should stay and talk? Cas was probably exhausted and didn’t want to be harassed, though.

“You know, everyone has a bit of trouble when they first go it alone. It’s just that you’ve had so much further to fall than most of us, so you don’t… you don’t realise that everyone’s just as useless and fucked up, because you had everything handed to you for so long… so don’t sweat it. You’ll get there.”

They hadn’t discussed it, but Cas supposed there were only so many people in the world named Castiel Novak, and he did sign an actual contract, which he presumed Crowley read (as well as drafted).

“That’s really kind of you to say,” Cas finally spoke. “Although I’m sure you probably don’t remember what it’s like to feel useless and fucked up yourself. I hear you’ve always been at the top of your game.” It was kind of nice to be talking to Crowley without having to worry about fake pretending to be seducing him not really (God, the whole thing made Cas’ head hurt!).

Crowley snorted at that. It was a ridiculous idea. Here was the son of a ridiculously wealthy and successful businessman thinking his jumped-up establishment was great? Well. It was, but that was beside the point. Not everyone thought it was a legitimate business, and he’d had more than his fair share of prejudice over the years (not least of which when trying to secure business loans). “You think I waltzed out onto the stage and everything fell into my lap? No. Took me a bloody long time to get where I am. I’m… _foreign_ , for one, and not exactly winning any awards for my ability to see over high walls… It’s been blood, sweat and tears all the way.”

And now that _bastard_ Lucifer, with his complete lack of scruples was threatening him. Crowley’s eyes flashed in anger at the thought of him. He’d taken that strapping lad in as a newcomer, too, and look where that had gotten him. Stabbed in the back, is where. Not everyone had the same sense of common decency that he tried to show his business associates. 

“I wish I could’ve been there to see you in your hey-day,” Cas found himself saying and then blushed bright crimson because he realized that was not internal monologue. “I mean… Um…” Change of subject. Help, help. SOS. Man down, man down. “I didn’t exactly plan on doing this for a living, I mean.” Fucking hell. Nice one, Cas.

“Not many people do plan on it,” Crowley admitted, “and I’m sure when your family finds out there’ll be hell to pay. But that’s probably half the reason you’re here, isn’t it? One final ‘fuck you’ to Daddy Dearest?” 

He shrugged, looked back at the joint. It was not a bad building. It was a respectable institution, no matter what the detractors said. “Been a long time since I walked the boards, but… yeah. I remember. Things were harder back then. People thought even less of you for it, assumed you were just…” Whores. Oh yes. He’d been called that a few times. He remembered bloodied noses and being shoved into walls. A whore is a whore is a whore, indeed. Which is why he had Bobby Singer on the door: the man would castrate anyone who tried to hurt his boys, and then feed them their testicles, too. “It’s better, now.”

Cas swallowed and reminded himself that this wasn’t actually ‘sharing.’ Crowley was still his boss and the appropriate reaction to what he had just said was _not_ , in fact, to reach out and give him a hug. He pulled the ridiculously pink blanket tighter around himself. It wasn’t human contact, but it would have to do.

“I wanted to go to grad school and study linguistics,” Cas suddenly confessed. “I’ve always had a thing for tongues… er… languages, I mean. Especially seriously old and extinct ones. Which is, as my dad pointed out, a pointless way to spend one’s time. I mean, if you’re going to learn a language, you should at least be learning one that someone else in the world _speaks_.”

He wasn’t sure why he had said any of that, but he kind of hoped that if he just kept talking (or at least doing more than communicating in his usual monosyllabic grunts around Crowley) that the other man wouldn’t leave. At least, not for a while longer.

“Ancient tongues?” Crowley’s brow arched. “Interesting. What drew you to them, to begin with? It’s… alright, I admit, I had no idea what you would be into studying, but I guess most people your age want to study media or acting or something to do with getting a job at the end of it…” He slid into the other side of the booth, forgetting he wasn’t supposed to be here right now. “Say something to me.”

“Something?” Cas quirked his eyebrow. “You mean in a dead language?”

Crowley nodded. Cas thought for a moment before finally looking up at his boss and saying a few unintelligible sentences.

“That was _probably_ Aramaic instructions for proper ritualistic bathing. And I say _probably_ because no one actually knows how Aramaic was originally pronounced. I don’t care what Mel Gibson says.”

“Pretty,” he admitted, “although you should probably tell your marks in future that it was ancient love poetry and you’ll woo them much faster without ever having to think about it. Still doesn’t tell me why, though. Was it just another thing to escape, or do you dream of… being the Indiana Jones of the linguistic world?”

Cas leaned closer. There was still the entire expanse of the VIP lounge separating them, but even from across the room, the soft purr of Crowley’s voice was magnetic.

“I don’t know, I just… love words, I guess. They’re so powerful, and we so seldom find the correct ones to express what it is we feel. I suppose I started studying languages originally because I hoped I might be better able to express myself if I had a bigger quiver from which to pull my arrows. But it wasn’t enough. So, I just kept looking. To language long dead. Maybe hoping that people used to know something else back then that we have long since forgotten. In truth, I’m not really sure what it is I’m looking for. I just think they’re beautiful.” 

He stopped, feeling suddenly very warm and self-conscious again. If Crowley didn’t think he was a damn idiot prior to that night, surely now he’d think he was a grandiose fool as well.

“Well. Quite the poet, aren’t we? Suddenly… I feel utterly outclassed in my own ‘house’. And that doesn’t happen very often. I’m assuming that you were supposed to give up your foolish love of learning and turn into a real, boring member of society, then? And instead you’re going to apply to grad school?”

“I was going to,” Cas said, trying to suppress a yawn, “but then I got thrown out and my trust fund got taken away and suddenly the very thought of entry exams and applications seemed so… insurmountable. As much as I wanted to be able to do what I wanted to do, I wanted to _not_ do what my father wanted me to do more. I realize it sounds petulant and immature, but if you knew my father…” Cas trailed off.

“You probably can’t hide forever,” Crowley pointed out. “Especially considering the resources he must have to his name, but a little healthy rebellion is good for the soul. Very punk, even if you’re a few decades too late, and I don’t think you should go for that look. But... for now you can hide.” He pushed up and out of the booth, then wandered until he found a suitably un-disgusting cushion and came back with it as a peace offering. “Why don’t you get your beauty sleep. Help yourself in the morning - just not to the optics - and I’ll be around when I get up to let you out?”

Cas reached for the pillow, fingers brushing against Crowley’s not entirely unintentionally. He did need to get some sleep. He knew that, yes. But he was also nursing a dumb crush and that flower needed watering too.

“Thanks, Crowley. I guess I’ll see you in the morning.” And in my dreams, if I’m lucky, he thought slyly.

“And next time, let me know he’s kicked you out, I’ll get you something better than this place.” Oh, what the hell, Crowley thought and messed his hair up on the way out. It wasn’t like it was particularly bad. He did much worse to the others, after all.

It was just he didn’t really harbour any particular intentions to the others, but then no one had to know but him. 

***

“I just need a photograph with all the spines legible, Dean, it’s not rocket science. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to buy books about something you don’t know the slightest shit about?”

“Damn it, Crowley, I’m a stripper, not a photographer!” the eldest Winchester snapped. “Besides, I still don’t know why you’re sending me on book-hunting expeditions, like some kind of a Book Hunter. What’s this about, anyways?”

“That’s for me to know and you to be perpetually kept in the dark about, Squirrel. So just make like a good boy and do what I ask. Now. You were going to tell me…”.

Dean glared at Crowley and pursed his lips, a move that normally got him anything he wanted, just not with his boss.

Was he forever to be surrounded by the beautiful but vapid? Well, he supposed if they were world-class astrophysicists they probably wouldn’t be shaking their rear ends for him, so maybe he should stop expecting them all to be mind-readers. “You were going to tell me a number. You know. You said you’d been to a party… might know…” Please don’t make me outright ask how bloody old he is, Crowley grumbled inside his own head. Or I may have to slam my head into a door repeatedly to get it straight. 

“Oh!” Dean exclaimed as if seeing the light. “You mean you wanna know how old Cas is? Don’t worry, Daddy, he’s legal.” Dean winked, but judging by the look on Crowley’s face, he immediately regretted his life choices. It looked as if Crowley was going to smite him. “Twenty-five. He was twenty-five when we met. Can I go now?”

Cas was on his way downstairs for his very first official lap dance when he heard the sound of his own name. He pressed himself along the wall, like possibly the worst secret agent ever, and trained his ears upon the conversation. His heart leapt like a treacherous rabbit right into his throat.

“Yes just… just… go. And remember I want that photograph, or I’m going to remember what you did at the Christmas party last year. Alright?” It was mostly an empty threat, but… still. And that meant Cas wasn’t _quite_ as jailbait as he seemed, which was also a relief. He felt less like a filthy old man (but only marginally). 

Speaking of, where the hell was he? He’d finally agreed (after much persuading) that Cas was ready to start giving people ‘private’ dances, and where was he? He’d even set the bar unreasonably high, and it still hadn’t been enough to deter the punters. And Cas needed the money, and he needed the revenue and interest and… fine. He was just going to have to let the kid out there to shake and grind and… do all those things. For money. Yep.

At last, Cas unglued himself from the wall, and tried to look casual as he walked towards Crowley. He could always blame his skittishness on the first lap dance, and not on the fact that he’d just heard his boss very obviously asking Dean his age. And he wasn’t going to think what that was all about either, although he couldn’t help but worry Crowley might now fire him for basically being too old.

“You sure about this?” Crowley said, when he saw Cas. Maybe he could suddenly develop an attack of the nerves and he’d have to send out the two brothers together to make up for it? (Chicks in particular seemed to dig that.) It would be too much to hope for, surely. “Meg can be… fussy…”

“As sure as my name is Antonio,” Cas replied and tried to accompany that with a lighthearted chuckle. “Who is this Meg? What does she like? How should I do her?” He was probably going a little overboard with all the questions, but being around Crowley made him stupid, which usually resulted in him losing all ability to communicate like a human being.

Who is she? She’s a witch and she should be burned at the stake and preferably barred from my establishment for life, Crowley thought. “She’s a regular,” he said instead, not liking the thought of anyone ‘doing’ her, least of all Cas. She was a complete fucking bitch, and if she didn’t tip like a dumpster truck then he’d have wiped that smarmy, grating voice off her stupid face long ago. “She likes… it rough.” He dared Cas to ask for anything else, because it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

Cas got the feeling there was a lot more there that Crowley wasn’t saying. But a job was a job, and how bad could it possibly be, anyways, gyrating in some chick’s lap. Sadly, he thought, he was a lot less likely to enjoy it as much as he enjoyed his ‘practice’ with Crowley. Or, perhaps, that was actually fortunate.

“What, you mean like I should smack her or something?” he asked carefully, hoping to at least dispel some of the dark cloud he saw hovering over Crowley’s face with poorly timed humor.

“Much as I wish I could say ‘yes’, I think if you slapped her that she’d break your wrist. And your favourite wrist, too, because that’s how she… just make her feel special and don’t act like you’re made out of cotton candy and you’ll be fine…”

“Right. Got it: don’t be pink and fluffy,” Cas smiled at Crowley and headed towards the back where his first private customer awaited him...

He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it must have gone better than he had hoped, judging by the wad of cash in Castiel’s hand as he came out of the private booth. She had been pretty and smelled like Chanel (he was pretty sure - his mother had been a big fan of Chanel too, which sort of made him feel a little dirty). She didn’t try to touch him, but her eyes felt like ropes around his skin, digging and pulling, and he wasn’t sure whether he found it pleasant or repugnant or both at once.

“First dance, bro!” Gabriel bounded up and high-fived him out of nowhere. “How did it go?”

Happy for the sudden distraction, Cas was glad to indulge the other dancer’s inherent need for fresh gossip.

“Intense,” he said. “I chose ‘Friction’ by Morcheeba, to keep things kind of light and fun as you suggested. I think she was into it.” Cas indicated the wad of cash with a complacent smirk. “Hey, where’s Crowley? Speaking of…” He looked at the money in his hand and Gabriel waved him towards the back of the bar.

“Go get ‘im, tiger,” the shorter dancer slapped Cas on the behind and bounced off towards a group of barely legal girls who had all been giving him the wave.

Okay, so, this was normal, Cas reminded himself. You just go up to your boss, and you hand him the money. And it’s a business transaction. And that’s… that. He took a deep breath and walked towards Crowley.

Crowley was busy burying himself in the very nice bottle of Craig with the very nice glass that was his and no one else’s, sitting at the bar and ignoring the current routine which he’d seen a hundred times or more. He wasn’t interested in it. Not at all. Wouldn’t even have been interested in it if he hadn’t seen it. He was interested in the delicious amber liquid which stared back up at him, begging him to swallow it. It would sting, when he did, and he would wish it was something else instead.

Meg Masters. Why did it have to be Meg? Crowley hated her unreasonably as it was, but now he hated her even more for flashing large wads of cash around and getting _his_ first dance (which, if he was reasonable, he would realise it wasn’t his first one because they had been doing it plenty for ‘practice’ reasons whenever they thought it was a good idea)... but still he gripped the tumbler tight and tried to just listen to the song playing and let the noise and the words and the flashing lights overhead seep in and take over, take control, fill his head and rid him of the horrible, gut-wrenching _jealousy_ that made him want to go in and grab Cas by the back of his neck and slam him into a wall and kiss him senseless and refuse to let him dance again and turn him into some kept animal. Yes. That. He’d been suffering from inappropriate levels of lust for too long, now, and no matter how many times he jerked off in the shower it did nothing to sate the underlying _ache_ , and it was all just shallow physicality and it never. Really. Worked. 

Although, who was he kidding? It was all shallow physicality, right? He had a pretty face. And ass. And hands. And neck. And eyes. And hair. And voice. Pretty much all of him was pretty, and apparently not _all_ that much younger than him. But he didn’t just want to fuck him… no. That wouldn’t have been enough (even if it would have been nice). Crowley wanted to brush him down and sort him out, give him all those books he’d want, send him off to grad school and let him do all those foolish things young people wanted to do, and then screw him screaming and sideways and curl up with him afterwards. And then do it again. And again.

Fuck. Why the hell did Dean have to bring him in to the club? Not that Cas would have ever exchanged words with him if he hadn’t, it wasn’t as if they moved in the same social circles. It was just… fucked. All of it. And he didn’t even notice when Cas started to hover by his shoulder, because he was still grumbling under his breath to himself. Fucked. Totally.

“You alright?” Cas asked, his hand mechanically finding Crowley’s shoulder, even though one didn’t have to be a mind reader to be able to tell that Crowley was not alright, far from it, in fact.

Crowley went very, very stiff under his hand, wondering if he’d said any of that aloud. He sure as hell hoped he hadn’t, because he knew for a fact his thoughts were all over the place and mostly involved his other head, right now. “Fine,” he grit out. “How… did it go?”

Cas moved his hand and chewed on his lip. It was obvious Crowley wasn’t in a very receptive mood, which was fine, he guessed. Since he finally made enough money to move out of the Winchesters’ place into a studio apartment of his own, he hadn’t exactly found ample opportunity for the kind of quality time he had stolen with his boss back in the club after hours. Those were moments when he had allowed himself the luxury of thinking of Crowley as more than his boss, as more of a friend. But he had always been an idiot when it came to this man, so apparently today was no different. He took a step back but extended his arm with the cash in it towards Crowley.

“It went,” he replied, tersely.

Crowley wanted nothing to do with that money, because it had come from _her_ , but if he turned it all down then he would surely get questions from the other boys. And also - right now - he couldn’t actually afford to turn down revenue streams. Unfortunately. So he took the wad of cash and roughly split it - not caring which was the biggest half, because half was more than they had agreed on anyway - and handed the other wad back to Cas. “Consider it your bonus,” he said, trying not to sound too bitter and failing miserably. “You must have made an impression,” he went on, tucking the money into his inside pocket.

There was something inherently frustrating about the exchange that made Cas want to kick and scream and bolt, but instead he simply reached out and took his share out of Crowley’s hand. He wanted to just take it and throw it in Crowley’s face because he didn’t want the fucking money. (Well, actually, he did. He needed it. But he was feeling melodramatic and a very important point was being made inside his own head.) His lip quivered and he knew that this wasn’t a good sign. He quickly turned towards the bar and asked Ellen for a shot of Grey Goose, which she promptly overpoured for him.

“If you don’t need me for anything else tonight, I’d like to go home early,” he said, lubricating himself with the generous amount of vodka.

 _Take me home_ , Castiel thought as loudly as he could. _Damn it, why don’t you want me the way I want you?_

“They can make up the routine without you. You’ve more than pulled your weight. Why don’t you find her, I’m sure she’d be happy to follow you home.” 

“Cuz I don’t fucking want _her_ ,” Cas snapped and headed towards the wings before he could say something he would regret even more the next morning.

***

It was easy enough to fix the matter. It was economics. Pure and simple economics. Supply and demand. And then - when something was in demand - you merely hiked up the price to make it appear more desirable. It’s why champagne was so damned expensive, because people were paying for the prestige and the name and the kudos more than the actual fizzy off-white stuff in the bottle. 

So Crowley upped the price. Sharply. So sharp that Balthazar asked him if he was out of his tiny mind and Balthazar regretted asking him if he was out of his tiny mind. “Whose name is over the door? Yes. Mine.” End of discussion. End of everything. End of anyone paying for lap dances from the much-beloved Antonio.

Or that was the plan.

Until Cas tore into Crowley’s office a week later, like some rabid dog off his leash.

“What the hell, Crowley! I _saw_ the price sheet! Are you actually going out of your way to make sure that everyone in the entire troupe hates my fucking guts? Or… or… _what?_ ”

Cas was livid. It was bad enough that the infuriating man was doggedly refusing to bend him over and fuck him himself, now he had put such a ridiculous price tag on him that no sane man or woman would ever shell it out either. And if Cas wasn’t getting lap dances, he wasn’t getting paid (as much - to be fair, he still got plenty of tips for his stage dancing). But that wasn’t what really bothered him - it was the principle of the whole thing. He felt like a leashed animal, who was simultaneously being refused his bone. It wasn’t fair!

“It’s business, Castiel,” Crowley said, deliberately still using his full name. “Have to make sure we have something over on those bastards down the street. Besides. You should be flattered. If anyone ever stumps up the cash you’ll know you’re _worth it_.”

“I’m _not_ worth it, though! That’s… that’s completely ridiculous. And besides, I’m going to be utterly out of practice by the time anyone even shells out that ridiculous amount of money, and have you thought about how bad that will make _you_ look?”

Crowley examined his desk intently. It was a very interesting desk. Unlike this conversation, which he was already bored of and wanted to be over already. Or - in fact - never to have started. “I wouldn’t worry about that. You are a _natural_ , after all. You just need music and a set of eyes and you’re practically making love to the air around you.” He looked up, feeling a little spiteful. “Or do you think you still need remedial classes?”

If Crowley hadn’t been his boss, Cas was pretty sure he would’ve punched him in the face. With his cock. And his fist too. But mostly his cock. Ugh! Infuriating bastard! Cas clenched and unclenched his fists feverishly.

“Crowley,” he grit through his teeth, “You know I wasn’t any good at lap dances when you sent me down there, to do your bidding, and you damn well know that I’m not the magical woodland creature that you basically just proclaimed me to be. Now, either lower that ridiculous fee, or at least give me some lessons to make me _worth it_!” Like _hell_ was he going to just be getting blue balls and get nothing in return!

Well now he was stuck between a rock and a… hard place. The rock being other people getting a lap full of Castiel, and the hard place being his lap. Full of Castiel. He knew which he’d rather, but frankly both options were trying to his sanity.

“Fine,” he growled in return. “Why don’t you just do it right here. I’ll even let you pick the bloody music.”

Cas could actually feel his pupils dilating. Mmmm yes, indeed, just do it right here. He really _wanted_ to. He hated Crowley so very much for it.

“Fine!” he snapped and started rummaging through Crowley’s iPod as if he was on a warpath and the device in his hand was a detonator. “Here, have some bloody Portishead, you wanker!” He didn’t know where the blatant British-isms had come from, other than the fact that if he couldn’t fuck Crowley, he could at least pretend to swear like him. He pressed the play key and let the sound of ‘Mysterons’ fill the room.

Crowley pushed his chair back from the desk just enough, twisting slightly, arms folded petulantly across his chest. He wasn’t going to make this easy for Cas. Not by a long shot. “Well. Get on with it. I don’t have all night and I’ve paid a lot for this, remember?”

“Oh, I remember,” Cas purred, dangerously, approaching the chair and circling it from the back. 

He started with his hands on Crowley’s shoulders, more to compose himself than to be a tease, although the after-effect of his delayed appearance couldn’t hurt. The steady but low beat of the trip-hop was the perfect counterpoint to his fingertips as they massaged into Crowley’s flesh. Finally, he turned the swivel chair around to face himself, and quickly straddled Crowley’s thighs, avoiding his eyes and instead focusing on his lips.

He was about to get a boner, but _fuck it_ if he was gonna try to cover it up this time. He’d never been so sexually frustrated in his entire life, and Cas resented Crowley for reducing him to being such a wreck without even touching him.

Crowley put a hand on each of the arm rests - he’d learned his lesson already on that front, thank you very much - and his eyes followed Cas’, daring him to make eye-contact. Begging him to make eye-contact. Fuck. He sat completely still in the chair, even though he wanted to move. Wanted to move very much. He pulled his bottom lip in with his front teeth, pressing down hard and keeping as silent as was humanly possible. 

Watching Crowley chewing on his lip definitely did not help to un-bone his impending boner, and Cas mindlessly mimicked his boss’ movement with his own lips. He ground down low, allowing the backs of his thighs to gently brush against Crowley’s lap, then lower again, this time having his ass drag across the place in Crowley’s pants where he was hoping to feel the twin to his own erection.

He hovered right there for a few moments, just swaying, teasing, until he lowered himself completely into Crowley’s lap and _yes_ , oh yes, there it was. Cas could feel the shit-eating grin spread across his whole face and he finally let his eyes meet Crowley’s, triumphantly. And then he ground down against the other man again, _hard_ , hard enough to stab Crowley in the stomach with his own throbbing boner. There was going to be an accident. Well, these things were par for the course, weren’t they? That’s what Dean’s always told him. They didn’t keep towels in the private rooms for nothing. He wondered vaguely whether Crowley had a towel in his office.

“See something you like,” Cas purred into Crowley’s ear, pitilessly rubbing his ass against the rock-hard line of his cock, one of his hands tangling in the other man’s tie, wrapping it around his fingers. It wasn’t a question.

Crowley couldn’t move his fucking hands. He wanted to. He wanted to pull at that hair and bare his throat and bite his way up to his mouth and put his tongue inside to stop that stream of _filth_ that poured from it. Wanted to grab the bulge in his pants he could feel and squeeze until his fucking nob fell off. Wanted to rip the clothes off him and insist he paid his dues to the club with that too-tight ass of his which he was _almost_ certain he’d not been whoring out to the other Angels, but not _entirely_ positive about, and that made him want to murder everyone in a five mile radius.

But he couldn’t move his hands. So he decided to retaliate again. If the fucker was such a linguist, he probably liked _words_ and all that, and he had such a gob on him when he did get going that he _must_ do. So. He turned his head and brushed his cheek just gently over Cas’, lips catching at his earlobe as he growled in return, a voice that came from the pit of the earth. “What do you think, you little sybarite, you wanton little shit… you get off on making men hard for you? Is that what does it? Is that what you have nasty little wet dreams about? Grinding down into some john’s lap and making him _burn_ with how much he wants to slide his big, fat prick into your perfect little arse? Do you jerk off at night to thoughts of people wanting you so badly it _hurts_? I bet you do. I bet you beat off when Dean’s in the next room, biting your fist so he doesn’t hear you whimpering. And I bet you get off on _that_ , too.”

Cheating! Abso-fucking-lute cheating! Cas grunted and pressed the palm of his hand against Crowley’s sinful mouth, to stop the outpouring of the sheer _sex_ coming from it.

“Why don’t you can it, old man?” he growled into Crowley’s ear. “It’s my job to make sure you get off without touching yourself. Or maybe you want to be wearing _my_ jizz all over your suit tonight too?” He had probably, it was just a guess, but if he had to venture one, yes, he _may_ have crossed an invisible line with his boss just there. He let go of the mouth with his hand and instead dug his fingers into the back of Crowley’s neck, grinding down against him so hard that he could literally feel the outline of his boss’ cock right in between his asscheeks. And then he squeezed.

Crowley’s eyes blazed with self-righteous anger. Who the fuck did this little jumped up shit think he was calling _old_? He still fucking had it, if the hard-on being stabbed into his stomach was anything to go by. Arrogant little prick. He grabbed hold of his hips - because putting his hand over his mouth was _not_ part of the game plan and that meant all bets were off - and held him right where he wanted him as he frotted hard between those damned cheeks of his. He was going to come in his damn pants at this rate, and he didn’t give two shits. “You’re going to have to try harder if you want to get me off, you impudent little twat. I’ve fucked people ten times as good as you. So why don’t you show me your _real_ A-game?” And then he grabbed a mouth full of throat and sucked, wanting to leave his mark all over that stupidly sexy throat of his and purred hard enough that he had to feel the vibrations all the way down to his toes.

Now, Cas may not have had a lot of experience with these lap dances, but he was pretty sure between the hip grabbing and the neck sucking all professionalism was going out the window and to hell in a handbasket, and he couldn’t control the moan of desire being torn out of his throat. His fingers clenched in Crowley’s hair and he just pulled him tighter into his own neck. He was losing it. He had lost it already. It was just a matter of his body catching up with his mind. He yanked Crowley off his neck with a sudden jerk of his wrist and pressed their lips together until his entire vision went white. 

Crowley kissed like a man who had wanted to kiss for quite some time now and was trying to cram all the kinds of kisses possible into one, long, gloriously fucked-up kiss. Mostly the kinds of kisses he wanted were violent, nasty and brutal. Mostly they involved trying to choke the life out of the cock-teasing swine, so that’s what he did.

Cas wasn’t sure what kind of self-control suddenly possessed him, or where this control was a minute ago, but just as he was sure he was about to bust the biggest nut of his life, he lept off Crowley’s lap as if scalded, surely looking like a completely disheveled mess, and ran out of the office as if the hounds of Hell themselves were at his heels.

And then… the little _shit_ was running out of the room. How dare he? How _could_ he? Crowley had felt precisely how turned on Cas had been, and if he’d tried to athletically bound from the room right now he would be sure he’d trip over his own dick. Which was now throbbing painfully in his pants, and wondering why in the hell he hadn’t just let it finish when there was still something hot and nubile in his lap.

Well. There was no longer anything hot and nubile in his lap, he didn’t think he had the wherewithal to _stand_ , let alone _run after him_ (and also - he’d left for a reason, and that hurt like a tonne of bricks to the chest). But he did have the worst (best) boner he could remember in far too long and he had to do something about it because there was no way in hell he was going to let that little ass-wipe ruin his libido and then waste it. Hoping to hell no one else would even consider coming near his office, he unfastened his pants and pushed down the elastic of his briefs and grabbed hold of his cock. He could think of a hundred better things to do with his cock than beat it off right now, but those options were not available to him. So instead he imagined making that worthless young buck kneel between his legs in penitence, staring up at him as he furiously wanked, going as hard and fast as he could without spraining his wrist. Imagined glaring down at him and telling him he was a filthy, nasty little boy and that he couldn’t have it, just because he wanted it, and then he was coming and spurting all over his desk and wishing it was sliding over Cas’ face, wished his tongue was snaking out to lap up the mess he’d made, wished it was him there, hungry and wanting and not an old man beating his meat off in his office like some sad excuse for a pervert.

He sat back in his chair, panting, sticky, and hated him all over again.

This really wasn’t working.

***

Sweating, panting, and looking rather like the madman he felt like, Cas rushed to the closest bathroom (which, blessedly, happened to be the private handicapped one) and locked the door before sinking on the filthy floor, head banging repeatedly against the cold wall.

_What the fucking shit hell fuck on a fucking stick!!!!_

Also _fuck_!

He pulled off his leather belt and shoved it into his mouth because he didn’t trust himself to even breathe properly at this point, to say nothing of staying quiet, and he yanked his swollen, throbbing cock out into the air and stared at it with all the hatred and accusation he could muster. Which, given the current state of affairs, was quite a bit.

He sank his teeth into the leather of his belt and shut his eyes, his hand working furiously over his length, pulling so hard that a part of him hoped, nay _tried_ , to pull the damn thing off. He had probably just fucked up the only good thing he had going for him, so before he would be gracelessly let go, he was going to rub one out in this here bathroom, and Crowley be damned! Damn him and his stupid beautiful face, and that ridiculously sexy voice, and all those deliciously filthy things he had murmured into Cas’ ear. Damn his mouth! Damn the way it felt against his neck, and fuck his tongue too, with its probing and…. and… _kissing_. Like Cas was his. Like that tongue belonged in Cas’ mouth (and he could suggest a few other places Mr. Crowley might consider shoving it as well, since they were at it). God _damn_ it! It wasn’t supposed to feel this bad, wanting someone!

With a barely suppressed by the leather strap moan, Cas spilled all over his hand, continuing to jerk himself off long after the last drop was wrung out,, just to make sure he was quite finished. His eyes stung and, when he was finally cogent enough to rub the back of his hand against them, he realized he had shed actual tears. That was one _hell_ of a release, all things considered. Such as how he would now be out on his ass again and starving and generally destitute.

Because it was in his damn _contract_ , wasn’t it? Thou shalt not fuck thy boss. Right there. He remembered it clearly. _Employees are not to have sexual liaisons with the management._ Well, Crowley was management. It was pretty obvious the clause had anticipated him - anticipated _this_ \- and Cas was sure there were really good reasons for it to have been in the contract. 

Yup. Cas was pretty sure Crowley was going to fire him. Which sucked. But what sucked even more was knowing that he would have gladly quit himself if it had meant he got to get to know the man. You now: _properly_. Sexually. Er… romantically. Because Cas actually _liked_ the guy. Maybe even more than liked. And he had fucked it all up somehow. He didn’t know where it had all gone so terribly wrong.

He really wanted to talk to someone. He’d gotten himself cleaned up and more or less put back together and snuck as quietly as he could into the dressing room. He found Sam and Gabriel playing tonsil hockey against one of the mirrors. Their height difference was apparently of little deterrent since Gabriel had chosen to climb the younger Winchester like a tree.

“Have you seen your brother?” Cas asked with an apologetic look. The last thing he wanted that night was to interrupt _more_ sex.

“He’s with a client. But it’s not Benny, so he should be done soon if you wanna wait around.” Sam pointed to the couch and resumed sucking Gabriel’s face as if privacy was a luxury but not a requirement for them. Cas envied them this: this simple ability to be kissing each other when the mere touch of the lips of the man he had himself desired had sent him running for his life (and probably gotten him canned).

Eventually, Dean did show up, smelling of someone else’s vanilla and covered in some kind of silly string from a bachelorette party. It didn’t take much convincing for Cas to get him to come over for a nightcap. If it was sex he had been expecting, he was gracious enough not to show it when Cas handed him a beer and sat down over on the opposite side of the studio.

“What’s up, bud?” Dean asked.

“Dean, I’m so fucking fucked,” Cas blurted out, fully aware of the irony that technically he had not gotten anywhere nearly as fucking fucked as he would have liked. 

And then he proceeded to tell Dean everything, starting with the nights spent sleeping in the club with Crowley’s complicity, and ending with the ill-advised lap dance of a few hours ago.

“So, you see,” Cas finished his story as he was finishing his own beer. “I’m about to lose my job _and_ he’s probably never going to want to even look at me again.”

“Yeah, I see,” Dean nodded, “I see that you’re a fucking idiot! And the only one who is an even bigger idiot is Crowley himself! I mean, Cas, you’re kind of a dumbass anyways, because you’ve had a sheltered life, and… well… it’s sort of excusable. But Crowley? He is old enough to know better!”

“What are you talking about?” Cas pouted at his friend.

“I’m talking about how you’re both so _dumb_. I mean, he’s obviously in love with you. That’s why he’s been hiking up your private dance prices - he doesn’t want anyone else touching you like that! And sending me out to find some kind of special books for you…”

“He what?”

“Right. That was probably supposed to be a surprise. It was gonna be a housewarming gift, I think.” Dean grinned and reached for another beer. “He’s so sweet on you, Cas, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so gone on anyone like that before. And now, you tell me this story, and I realize it’s mutual? What the hell is _wrong_ with the two of you morons? Can’t you just talk to each other?”

Cas was dumbfounded. No. Surely Dean had been mistaken. Crowley thought he was useless, and a spoiled brat, and a general cock-tease, and whatever else he had said (it just all sounded so hot at the time that Cas didn’t give a shit if it was insulting).

“No, Dean… he’s my boss. He’s our boss. We’re not supposed to… It isn’t… He doesn’t…”

“Wow, Cas. Yeah. It is. And he does.” Dean took another long gulp, finishing his drink, and got up to leave. “Trust me. Just talk to him. It’ll work itself out.”

It was so easy for Dean to say, Cas thought. He had nothing to lose. Whereas Cas had already lost everything. If he also lost this phantom hope of even being around Crowley at work, even if they guy hated him, that would be… Unbearable, he realized. It was all quite unbearable.

***

The next day Crowley was - for once - unavailable. It was entirely out of character for him. Whenever anyone knocked on the door to his office he refused to say ‘Come in’, even though they knew he was inside. The preparation for the evening went on as normal without him, but it hadn’t gone unnoticed that the boss’ heart wasn’t in it. 

Bobby, Ellen and Kevin were discussing this as they brought up the extra bottles and clean glasses to stock the bar in preparation. It was a Friday night - one of the few free for alls instead of solely men or women - and those were always the most hectic because the women would be competing with one another to drag male attention to themselves, and the men with more diverse interests would be flaunting themselves to make both parties jealous. It was always a hotbed of hormones and the odd bitch fight, and the till would - without fail - overflow. The key was to not do it too often.

The consensus amongst the non-performing staff was that _something_ had gone down with Castiel. Their boss had been increasingly on-edge since he’d joined and although they had initially put it down to worry about the club, the increased number of tips and bonuses they’d been getting since ‘Antonio’ had joined the lineup had changed their mind.

Dean found them gossiping under their breath, but they stopped and watched as he and Cas entered together. Were they fucking, they wondered? Was that the problem? Dean shook his head at them behind Cas’ back and guided him backstage, like he was pushing someone to their execution. 

So they went into the normal routines, just like any other night. The tension in the air was thick, and it was clearly driving everyone out of their minds from the bills they stuffed in and the drinks they ordered and spilled on one another and the floor. 

Crowley sat at the bar at the back of the room, in his customary chair and most studiously did not watch the twirling, prancing shenanigans on the stage. He was back to nursing the Craig and narrowing his eyes whenever Ellen threatened to cut him off for the sake of his liver. His liver was just fine. In fact, his liver _needed_ this. He needed this. He had to show he was the bigger man and he wasn’t going to let some whiny little brat dictate terms to him. Just because he thought he was a big shot… Crowley was the one in charge. And he could bloody well buy into the business model and be grateful for every cent he earned.

And it was completely not because he wanted to make sure he was the last lap the kid sat in... at least in this building. Even if he was going to drive him straight into Lucifer’s grubby, nasty, sordid little paws and…

...there went the last of that bottle. 

Dean slid into the chair next to him - must be time for Sam and Gabriel’s new nearly-fuck-on-stage routine - and Crowley ignored him.

“Boss.”

He gave Dean a look that would melt lesser men.

“Someone’s ponied up for Cas. I… thought you might want to know.”

Might want to… oh great. So his wonderful marketing campaign had actually _worked_. And now Cas was going to be honour-bound to go and give someone else the ride of their life. He was going to stroke his fingers over their ears, breathe sweet, empty nothings against their cheeks, flutter those lashes and…

“Who,” he growled, his voice not going up for the question at all.

“Dunno. Some new guy. Suit. Think I overheard the name… Jack? No… Chuck. Yeah. Chuck.”

They needed the money. Or - more precisely - Cas did. It was a significant chunk of cash, and he’d take home a reasonable proportion of it, too, thanks to the terms they’d agreed to. And he’d earned it by the performances he gave on his own. More than earned the recognition. Reminded Crowley of himself, in a way, at that age. All hot-headed and reckless abandon and… 

Crowley slammed the empty glass down on the bar. No dickhead in a suit was going to get Cas. Didn’t everyone realise he was supposed to be _his_ , and it was - it was ridiculous because - because he didn’t want to use his money, didn’t want to push the younger man into a relationship to fill his belly. Castiel was not a prostitute, not a whore, and Crowley wished he could just take him a million miles from here so he could… so he could treat him right and so it was _real_ and not just the insane chemistry they clearly had, and not a need for survival and…

Chuck had a suitcase with him. Cas was already in the room, but they hadn’t started yet.

“The price just went up,” Crowley snapped at him. “Double.”

“That’s hardly fair,” Chuck argued.

Cas shook his hair out in utter stupefaction, “What?”

“It is if I’m bloody well putting the money down.” If Cas needed the money so damned badly he’d give it to him. Then he could quit this life entirely and go off to grad school and leave Crowley to his right hand and peace, and he could stop spending every damn day thinking about what he wanted to do to him. With him. For him. In him. Basically any preposition you could think of.

“Then I’ll pay twice what you’re offering.” Chuck leaned forwards, completely ignoring Castiel between them, who seemed all but struck dumb.

“Whatever you offer, I’m going to double. Hell. I’ll hand over shares in the damn club before I let you touch a hair on his head.”

“Wait… stop,” Cas offered in a daze.

“I wasn’t going to--”

“No, you really weren’t. So why don’t you just go pick someone else out, because I’m sure they’ll be happy to make _you_ happy. Tell you what, I’ll even pay for that dance, too. So why don’t you just find someone else and then go.”

“Crowley!” Cas hissed, eyes going so wide they were in a very real danger of popping out of their sockets.

Chuck’s eyes also went wide. “I don’t even want a dance,” he said, standing and shoving the suitcase at Cas. “That’s from your father. He says he’ll let you access your damn fool trust fund again if you for _God’s_ sake just stop stripping. You’re all insane. All of you!”

And then he stormed out.

And left Crowley with Cas. Dean - perhaps wisely - had the sense to make himself scarce.

Well. There it was out of the bag, Crowley supposed. “I’ll give you what I said I would, although I guess you don’t need it anymore. I’m a man of my word.”

Cas’ hands shook and he put the suitcase down on the floor, without bothering to open it. He knew what he’d find inside: a small fortune. He exhaled and dropped down into the armchair usually reserved for the clientele.

“I was going to say that man was one of my dad’s attorneys if you’d let me get a word in sideways,” Cas smiled up at Crowley crookedly. “But you never do. You just don’t shut up long enough to listen. Because you always have to have some witty repartee in your quiver for any occasion, right? That way people can’t… disappoint you, I suppose.”

Well, great, Crowley thought. There went the grand romantic gesture. Of course he’d be upstaged by Daddy Dearest. And now he looked like a posturing fool instead of a knight in shining armour. He deflated visibly and slumped back against the doorframe. He had nothing. Literally nothing. That was his last great idea, and it was thrown into his face like it was ridiculous. Which it was. How could he ever hope to compete with the endless pockets of the Joshua Novaks of this world? Or think that he - the proprietor of a venue for pretty boys dancing - would be an acceptable suitor for someone of his upbringing. He’d had his brief fling with poverty, and now...

“And I don’t want your money!” Cas raised his voice, feeling his heart beating so loudly that he had to shout over it. “I never did! Here, in fact, why don’t you take this money too.” He kicked the suitcase over to Crowley. “God knows the club needs it more than I do… now.” He dropped his face into his hands to hide the mounting flush. Because this was it, wasn’t it? This was good-bye. And he was dangerously close to crying with frustration, but boys didn’t cry. Or so his father had drilled into his head when he was still a child.

“Well. I’m glad you have your money back, and you can return to your own name. You no longer have to slum it with us, you can go off to study all those dead tongues and you can treat this as a chapter in your upcoming New York Times Bestseller list: ‘When I briefly had to whore myself out for noodles’. So. I’m… happy for you. I’m really happy for you. You get to escape and laugh about this… it’s been nice knowing you.” Don’t go. Please don’t go. “Don’t let the---”

Before he had a chance to finish, Cas leapt out of the armchair and slammed Crowley bodily back against the door.

“Shut up, shut up! Don’t you ever just…” And then he kissed him.

Crowley had hold of Cas’ head before they’d even finished moving, because his body clearly knew what his head was refusing to listen to. He opened his mouth, trying to take control with his tongue, fighting for control. 

He shoved Cas back just long enough to growl at him, “ _Don’t you think you owe me a dance?_ ”

“Lock the fucking door,” Cas gasped, hands all over the other man, pressing his body along Crowley’s with such insistence that he was pretty sure he would get burns on his skin from his (former?) employer’s suit. He was already wearing very little (i.e. a leather jock strap and harness) himself, prepared as he was to show someone an up close and personal good time. It occurred to Cas that he’d never actually worn quite so little and been quite so close to Crowley before (surely everything might have gone to hell so much sooner).

Crowley locked it alright. No one was coming in right now. Then, before they could go any further, he reached inside his jacket pocket and fished out - not that, no… yep - there. Castiel’s contract. He held it up with an eyebrow raised. “You ready to burn this? Because I don’t want you doing this because you feel you should. I’m… You idiot, I _want_ you. I don’t want… Fuck, why can’t I say anything I want to when you’re in the room? You just rot my brain into mush. And… fuck.”

Cas took a step back, eyeing the man and the contract in his hand like a hungry wolf. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to rip up first: the damn piece of paper or Crowley’s smart suit. Finally, he tore the contract out of Crowley’s hand, balled it up angrily, and tossed it square across the room.

“Same,” he growled in his mindlessly turned on voice and slammed Crowley against the wall again, lips hovering far too close for his own sanity. “Want you,” he whispered, throat going completely dry. “So much, it fucking _hurts_.” And if he was going to have to explain another thing that night, he would set the entire establishment on fire.

“Then _have_ me, you fool,” Crowley replied, fingers in his hair, tugging and yanking and _God_ , but he didn’t know where the hell to start with this. His other hand scraped down from shoulder to ass, pulling him snug, trying to get all the air between them to piss off. He couldn’t even work out what he wanted to do first, because there was so much of it to do. “Chair,” he suggested, because then at least they would have to concentrate less on not falling over. If he could pick the damn fool up he would, but instead he clumsily shoved off from the wall and back into the room.

Cas whirred around so quickly, the momentum practically threw Crowley into the armchair. They both stumbled back, hands tangled up in each other, until Cas finally landed on top of Crowley’s lap - his familiar happy place - and clenched down tightly with his thighs on either side of Crowley’s hips. For a moment, he just stared at the other man’s mouth, like some kind of forbidden fruit, taunting him, but no longer forbidden… He leaned in, brushing his lips against Crowley’s gently at first, then tentatively taking the man’s lower lip in between his teeth and pulling, and finally slamming against his mouth with all the ferocity and blue balls that he had blamed Crowley for.

“Demon,” he hissed against Crowley’s mouth in between ravenous kisses. “Why…. why…. torture me for so long?” He tried to undo the buttons on Crowley’s shirt only to have his hands slapped away. Cas practically whinnied and bucked in frustration in his tormentor’s lap. “The fuck? Crowley! Let me!”

“No… suit stays on,” he said, from somewhere under his jaw where he was currently trying to lick his way through whatever ridiculous thing he’d been encouraged to smear himself with tonight. “Didn’t… want to take advantage of you,” from where he was biting on his shoulder, where the black leather of his harness crossed over his chest leaving very little to the imagination, down to the matching bloody jockstrap that he was trying to unfasten. “...ridiculous I know, I just… didn’t have enough to keep you properly, so I thought if you never left…” Yes. He realised he was completely idiotic to trap him and refuse him and think that it was somehow romantic or at least… decent.

“I thought you hated me,” Cas whispered against Crowley’s earlobe, rubbing his face against the other man’s unshaven jaw like some kind of a feline, but in a leather harness.

“Hate you? Hate how besotted I was…” his fingers prising the leather down and getting two hands very full of that ass he’d been so fixated on since he’d first seen him shake it. “ _Christ_ , but you make me insane. I just… I _need_ you, I _want_ you…” He swallowed. “I think I’m in love with you.”

He couldn’t bear to wait for an answer, finding Cas’ mouth with his own again and biting in an attempt to get him to get with the program. This was good, but he wanted more. He wanted goddamn every single thing.

Cas wanted to chew Crowley’s entire face off. He thought his eardrums would burst. If he thought hearing Crowley whisper filthy innuendo in his ear earlier was hot, well, hearing him profess his love was actual lava melting his ears, melting every single part of him. He moaned into the kiss, fingers digging into the folds of Crowley’s ever-present clothes, trying to feel the heat emanating from underneath.

“You have a hell of a way of showing it,” Cas leaned and rubbed into the touches, “Drive me up the goddamn wall, you insufferable buffoon.” He latched his teeth to Crowley’s earlobe and pulled, moving down to his neck, sucking and biting the sensitive skin there, but not hard enough to mark yet. Because this - whatever this was - he couldn’t quite believe it was really his for the taking. “Please,” he moaned against Crowley’s skin, not even knowing what it was he wanted, only that it felt like he was dying and Crowley was the only one who could save him. “Please, please, let me have it.”

A single finger that trailed low and stroked over Cas’ tight little hole and damn but he wished he’d thought ahead, but he hadn’t even really thought about kissing, let alone anything else. He stroked behind his balls, too, trying to tease every bit of him he could reach. He was pressed into his belly, making it difficult to reach the cock he could feel trapped between them. He’d done this enough before, but… it was like all higher brain function was turned off and all he could think was _fuck_ and _yes_. There was no doubt in his mind that it had to be love, because lust alone never made him so stupid. 

Crowley started to unbuckle the straps on Cas’ shoulders, wanting to peel the very last remnants of clothing standing between him and Cas. He wanted to see - touch - everything. Fingertips that were softer than they should have been, tracing down to touch the slight marks and blemishes that just made him somehow more perfect still, like the tiny little kiss next to a nipple, or the nick of paler flesh above his hip. He wanted to memorise it all. Wanted to _know_ , and he kissed the front of his throat again in distraction.

“Stop hiding behind your damn suit,” Cas practically whined. “It’s a really hot suit, but I need you. Need to _feel_ you, all of you…”

“You can cope.” He wasn’t ready to let Cas see him. He was… not the man he’d been when he’d been on stage. He’d let himself go, a little, and it wasn’t like he had anyone to blame but himself. He didn’t want his out-of-shape frame to sit beside the chiseled, statuesque one on his lap. “Tell me what you want. I want to hear what you want. And then _I’ll_ tell _you_.”

“What do I want?” Cas paused and let out a small snicker. “I don’t _want_ to cope anymore. Do you know how many nights I lay awake, just thinking about your hands on me, and you’ve barely even _touched_ me? Do you have _any_ idea what it’s like even talking to you? You’ve built so many walls around yourself…” Cas insistently tugged at Crowley’s tie, making the knot come undone. “I _want_ to tear them down. I want to tear it all down. I want to touch you and put my mouth all over you. And I want you to _let_ me, dammit, Crowley… I don’t even know your first name!”

The tie was about as far as he’d let him go, and he grabbed those hands and pulled them off and away again, tutting. “I told you,” he repeated, “suit. On. I’m not taking it off here. If you want to see underneath you’re just… going to have to… do it elsewhere.” Back to being eloquent, it seemed. Fuck, but Cas said he liked listening so… he put those arms over his shoulders and then undid his own pants, because he didn’t trust him to behave himself. “Like… somewhere with a nice, big bed. Where I can throw you down and ravish you. Where I can lick every last inch of your skin and _devour_ you.” He pushed him back just enough to grab hold of Castiel’s dick, even though he was almost afraid to touch it. Even through the leather, which he was going to have to remove in a moment. “I’ll tell you if you promise not to laugh….”

Cas ground down into Crowley’s hand, his breath coming in quick succession as if he was in excruciating pain, which, to be fair, wasn’t that far off.

“Jesus, Crowley…” he mouthed along the other man’s jaw, nipping against his skin with his teeth, “There are much worse things I can do than laugh at you. You infuriating cock-tease…” Like, for example, rip your cock off if you don’t fuck me with it immediately, Cas thought, eyes going dark with need.

God, but he had a nice cock. Crowley had eyed it through increasingly revealing clothing, when people weren’t able to see his eyes lingering over the way fabric left little to the imagination… although he’d imagined plenty on his own. He had a very nice, pink, thick cock which felt good in his hand, and he stroked it like he’d stroked his own when thinking of it too many times. His eyes were laughing, leaving the silence until he thought one of them might physically break. Then he dropped a little kiss to his jaw. “...Fergus,” he confessed, ready to eat up any sly comment with his lips hovering over Cas’. “But if you tell Dean, I’ll kill you.”

“Fergus,” Cas repeated, lapping up Crowley’s kisses like some kind of an indulgence. “Really, I’m in no position to mock other people’s names, or share their secrets, am I?” But this was becoming ridiculous - Crowley’s hand on his cock, his lips touching Castiel painfully gently - he was going to explode. “Speaking of positions I’m in… Are you planning on finally fucking me, or would you like me to beg some more? Because I don’t mind begging…”

“Much as I’d love to do nothing else, right now, I’m not letting you out of my sight and I’m _not_ texting Dean to ask him for supplies…” his thumb rubbing over the streak of pre-cum spilling out ready. “I want you to ride yourself raw but I’m not going to destroy such a perfect little behind…” 

Castiel had slitted his eyes in consternation and confusion. Why couldn’t Crowley just come out with it and say what he meant, like a normal human being? 

“Do you mean…. lube?” 

He laughed into his neck. “Yes, Cas. Lube. I don’t know what you kids get up to these days, but where I’m from we don’t go around sticking things in people without getting them nice and ready. And I want to fuck you so _very_ badly.”

“You goddamn demon spawn, why couldn’t you just say so?”

An entire madrigal of salacious sweet nothings and an ode to his ass composed instead of getting to the actual point! But, Cas supposed, that was one of the reasons he was so fond of the bloody lunatic. 

“Hang on,” Cas said, meaning _literally_ , because he had swung his body off to the side of the armchair and rummaged underneath, until he bounced back up again, proudly brandishing a small bottle in his hand. It was labeled ‘Hand Sanitizer.’ He pushed it into Crowley’s hand with a wicked smirk. “Merry Christmas, bossman!” 

“I’m going to kill Balthazar,” Crowley said. “Or kiss him. I’m not sure. Give me the bloody bottle,” he said, grabbing it. “If I don’t get inside you _right now_ I’m going to make a mess of this suit and I don’t want that…” He crooked a finger, flicking open the bottle with his other hand. 

“Fuck you _and_ your suit fetish,” Cas muttered, struggling to yank Crowley’s cock out of the confines of his damn clothing. “I’ll buy you a new one if I ruin this one. Or I’m going to kill you. Something very violent and very unpleasant will happen to you if you don’t….”

Crowley had enough of the back-chat, and as he now had lube he felt quite within his rights to slide a finger down between his cheeks and then push in to the second joint, swirling it around and watching his face intently. “You have nothing to worry about. _I’m_ going to kill me if I don’t fuck you.” He was not in the mood to go slow, though, jamming a second finger in and scissoring him abruptly open. “Take the damn strap off. I want you naked.”

Cas could feel his legs and hands shaking with anticipation. He’d almost blown his load just from the first tentative breach, but managed to get his shit in gear for the big show, like the consummate performer he had apparently become. For Crowley. Everything, all of this, it was his fault. His very _sexy_ fault. He tore his jockstrap and harness off in one fell swoop and tossed them to the floor.

“Better?”

“Get the fuck on my dick, Cas.” If he was going to need direction, Crowley was more than willing to give it. “ _I want my goddamn dance._ ” He shoved a third in because he was taking too long, and Crowley was losing what little patience he had. Then he pulled his fingers out and got hold of his hips, yanking him forwards. “Do I need to spell it out to you? F. U. C. K. Now.”

He didn’t have to be asked twice, his feet were already braced against the floor, lifting himself just enough to position his opening right over the warm thickness of Crowley’s cock, and then lowering himself over it. Slowly, so very slowly, it was taking all of his self control. He wanted more, harder, faster, _now_ , but damn if he wasn’t going to drag this out as long as he could, if for no other reason than vengeance for Crowley making him lose his entire goddamn mind. He wrapped his arms around the infuriatingly fully dressed man and breathed hot and fast against his ear. “God…. yesssss….” So full, so very full, fuck, he was so fat inside Cas, and maybe it had been a while, but maybe it was just the right fit because Cas felt his eyes rolling into the back of his head at the delectable long drag against every nerve.

Quite unbidden, and without his consent, the entire stream of foul language known to the English language spooled out of him without the slightest pause for breath. And Crowley knew them _all_. “You’re a filthy, nasty little boy and god _damn_ but you feel good on my dick. I’m never letting you out of my _sight_ , in case you ever let anyone else fuck you… _Christ_ , Cas, but you’re a goddamn _angel_ and I don’t mean one I pay…” His hands on those hips pressed hard enough to leave pink marks as he forced him up and back down again. Shit but they needed some music to make him go faster. If only they’d thought about that before, but the music had always ground to a halt and stopped them short of this in the past so perhaps it was for the best. “Ride me like a cowboy or I’m going to cut holes in all of your pants so you can’t leave my house and just spend all day in my lap, you…” he wanted to call him a whore but he couldn’t, so he just growled instead.

“Yes, yes, keep talking, you filthy King of Logorrhea,” Cas moaned into Crowley’s ear, loving each word almost as much as he was loving each perfectly aimed stroke of his cock inside his ass. He bounced harder, faster, sweat running down his neck, onto his chest, sweat soaking into the fabric of Crowley’s bloody suit. “Oh _fuck_ , you feel so good inside me,” Cas keened and bucked and threw his head back and moaned so loudly that he was thankful for the incredibly loud base of ‘Toxic’ blaring over the speakers in the main lounge. He was missing the group number. Oh well, fuck it all twice. “God damn it, I wanna make you cum so hard right now…”

“Just keep doing that and it won’t be long, I’m going to cum in your ass, I’m going to fill you with my spunk, and then I’m going to clean you out with my tongue so you can walk around without it sliding down your perfect thighs when I drag you out of here in front of everyone… I’m going to pull your dick until you cry and it hurts and then I’m going to make you watch while I lick every. Last. Bit. Of. Cream. From my fingers… because I need to taste you to see if you’re as delicious as I dreamt of every night…” Speaking of, he moved to grab Cas’ cock and make good on his promise. “I want you to fall apart so I can pick you up and put you back together with my hands, my tongue, my words….” He felt utterly ridiculous spouting nonsense, he wasn’t even sure it made sense, but it was working on Cas from the way he kept squeezing his dick.

Even if Crowley was all words and bluster, Cas could live with that, but he really hoped he was going to put his money where his mouth was, or rather, put his mouth where his mouth promised it would go. Either way, he was about to blow the biggest wad of his life, and do it while screaming his brains out too. It was all he could really do because other than incoherent moans and cries, nothing else was coming out of his mouth. He sank his fingers into Crowley’s hair, pressing his sinful mouth closer to his own face, his ear in fact, and then came screaming on his cock like the bitch in heat Crowley made him out to feel.

Oh, that felt good. Crowley felt it all the way down to his toes. Cas clenched around him and the _noise_ he made was inhuman and beautiful and like no music he could ever play. He was going to have to make him do that more often. Much, much more often. He lifted his hand to his lips and started to lick it clean even as - shit - his tongue froze mid-swipe as he couldn’t hold on any longer, either. His eyes rolled up into his head as he felt his climax hit him, spilling into that wonderful, perfect ass which really was as wonderful and perfect as he’d thought it would be. Oh, he was lost. Utterly, utterly lost. And absolutely madly in love, as well, which was just… 

...his eyes flickered open and waited for Cas to stare back, so he could watch him finish licking his hand clean of Cas’ jizz. And then he smiled. “Worth the wait?”

Cas felt his eyes slowly refocusing on Crowley’s lips. He could still feel drops of his own sweat dripping down onto the other man’s rumpled clothes. And when he could finally begin to think clearly, he slapped Crowley sharply across the face.

“No!” And then he draped his body over Crowley’s damn suit. “You should’ve done that weeks ago, you idiot,” he muttered, wrapping his arms snuggly around Crowley and closing his eyes again. “I love you and you make me angry,” he whispered, nuzzling into Crowley’s neck.

He laughed, kissing the hand before it moved, then went to just stroking up and down his back. Cas was slowly calming down from the exertion, but it was still nice to feel the shudders flickering through his body. “I love you and you make me angry _and_ horny. Can we maybe skip the angry bit and just go to the fucking in future?”

“Mmmkay,” Cas mewled like an agreeable cat. “But in the future, the suit comes off,” he added with a soft smile that Crowley could feel against his neck.

“If you agree to stay for breakfast?” Which was one way of asking him home. At least for a night. (To begin with.)

“Fine, but I’m cooking.” Cas seemed perfectly content to stay in that lap, with Crowley’s cock still inside him, for decades. “You have bacon at your house, right? Otherwise, I’m not going.” Crowley must have fucked his brains out, for sure, because there was no other explanation for having this kind of a domestic discussion in a strip club.

“Do I look like I start the day with oatmeal, or a Full English? Of course I have bacon. And coffee. Real coffee. None of that instant shit.”

“Great, then I’ll provide the sausage.”

***

Dean was probably not the best person to toss the keys to the joint, but Crowley did it anyway. “Lock up, kid,” he said. “Take good care of the place for me, because I have more pressing matters to deal with.”

The pressing matters were the mostly-dressed but thoroughly-fucked Castiel who was clinging to him with one arm, the other swinging a suitcase, and nibbling at Crowley’s ear. Crowley had an arm slung around his waist, and they walked with a minimal amount of feet tangling, though the kissing whenever they got a chance was rather over the top.

Dean looked like he was going to say something, but then he just shook his head with a smug little ‘I told you so’ wink at Cas.

Crowley was in no fit state to drive, and so he reluctantly surrendered the keys, because he refused to leave his car at the club overnight. The drive was not long, and perhaps would have been better in the back of a taxi because they kept touching and slapping and nearly wrapping around street lighting.

Eventually, though, they came to the little house that Crowley called home. It was - quite obviously - spectacularly neat and well furnished, and every room they stumbled through was perfectly decorated. Crowley tutted and refused to let Cas further than the porch with his shoes on, so those were kicked unceremoniously off. They wrestled their way up the stairs and into the bedroom. Crowley had a large bed, but at least it was more tastefully made than the VIP rooms at the club. He dropped onto it and held his arms out, expecting Cas to join him.

“You know I’m going to want you when I’m sober, right?” he asked, somewhere between clavicle and jaw, tangling legs and arms together with drunken intensity. “You know that, don’t you? Because I will. _Oh_ I will…” 

Crowley carried on the kissing, nuzzling his way under his chin and wrapping around him like he thought he might float away if he didn’t use his whole body to pin him down. “...make me so happy… dance…” Fingers that found pressure points and kneaded. “...fuck… mine... like you stupid…so pretty…” A yawn. He wasn’t going to fall asleep. He still had lots of fucking to do. “...bacon... bet you taste good morning…” But clearly his body had other thoughts as his eyes refused to open back up and he passed out from all the alcohol on top of emotional and physical exhaustion. He was, however, smiling around the little snorts he made.

Cas sporfled unceremoniously into Crowley’s neck. He was certain his former employer would be quite indignant at that, had he been awake, but now the only thing he could do was lie there asleep and take it.

He looked… adorable, all lost in the land of Morpheus and the heavy down duvet, and the scattered pillows cushioning them. Castiel ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair, making it stick up in every direction, as he watched his breathing even out and turn into a soft snore.

“I love you, you moron,” he whispered in Crowley’s ear. “You didn’t even take your stupid suit off. You really… just…” He wrapped his arms around the other man’s sleeping form, and tossed a leg over him too, for good measure. “You piss me off,” he concluded, and closed his eyes, allowing the rumble of Crowley’s breath against his head lull him to sleep.

***

Apparently the only thing that changed overnight was that Cas had somehow become the little spoon, as he discovered upon awaking with Crowley’s arms wrapped tightly across his chest. His host was still breathing softly into the back of his neck, out like a light.

He was still asleep after Castiel had showered, toweled off, and slipped into one of the robes that he found hanging in Crowley’s bathroom. It was - admittedly - a little short on him, but he didn’t think Sleeping Beauty would mind, once he actually awoke from his epic slumber. Which apparently wasn’t going to happen any time soon, so he trotted down to the kitchen and checked the refrigerator. Score: Crowley really did have bacon. And eggs. Not a whole lot else though, by the looks of it, besides three different kinds of expensive cheese. Cas contemplated making a d’affinois omelet, but then decided even he wasn’t sybaritic enough for that. 

He found the coffee too, just as Crowley promised, and started to brew it while the bacon sizzled in the small toaster oven. His stomach growled. If Crowley wasn’t going to wake up soon, Cas wasn’t above eating without him… Or _off_ him, he decided, grinning slyly.

Crowley slept long and deep. Apparently a skinful of good whisky followed by giving _Cas_ a skinful of him was good for the soul. Better still was something to cuddle through the night, as he'd always been an affectionate sleeper. So he had pleasant dreams, and even the fuzziness of the night before when he woke up wasn't enough to kill the good mood. 

He reached out as consciousness slid back in, patting the bed without any fine motor skills. Nope. He kicked out with a leg. Nope. He frowned and then... ah. He could hear vague noises downstairs, and the faintest trace of food-smell. Which was good. He was hungry, and alcohol always made him crave ridiculously fattening breakfasts. 

Crowley was not a morning person. 

He rolled out of the bed and - what the hell? He was still in his suit. Alright. Apparently they hadn't got up to much when he'd got home, which explained why it was all sort of a blur of nice memories and... god he hoped Cas didn't think he was a lightweight. It had been a while. He wasn't about to appear looking like he looked now, so he staggered into the shower, stripped with the ease of one who wastes no time getting naked when necessary, and flung himself in the hottest shower possible. Where he stood in the water, letting it sink into his muscles and wake him up. It wasn't the only thing that woke up. 

Which did make dressing again a little bothersome, but not impossible. He pulled out one of his nicer suits - one he didn't wear to the club often - and some smart black socks. He was adjusting his tie when he got to the kitchen door.

"Good morning, beautiful." His voice... ah yes. He hadn't had coffee yet. It was half sexy snarl, half inhuman morning voice. Coffee. He needed coffee right fucking...

...maybe after he grabbed the back of Cas' head and pulled him in for a morning kiss.

Cas almost dropped the skillet with the eggs when he was summarily manhandled in the most delightful of ways. Crowley smelled minty fresh and looked crisp. 

"Hey sleepy," Cas replied once free of Crowley's lips on his. "Is this customary for you? A tie and suit, even at home?" He steadied the eggs and copped a friendly feel on his host's ass - it looked really great in the obviously tailored slacks.

Crowley appreciated the hands-on treatment, and pulled Cas in tight with one arm around his waist and the other squeezing the back of his neck gently. "I sometimes ditch the tie..." he said, between more stolen kisses. Which was a lie, he sometimes wore things a little less formal but it wasn't often. "Besides. It suits me." More kisses. "Like being naked suits you." Nose in his hair, breathing in the clean smell. "What's for breakfast?"

Cas pressed closer, sliding his body along Crowley’s, leaving no doubt as to what he was wearing (or not wearing, as it were) underneath the robe.

“Eggs and bacon: the staple of any hearty American breakfast.” He turned back towards the stove, moving the skillet off the fire. “I made the eggs runny. Hope you have bread because otherwise we’ll have to get creative with the yolk.” Any further cooking mishaps prevented, he turned the stove off and threw his arms around Crowley’s neck again, slotting their groins closer. “And the sausage is dessert,” he whispered, fingers gently brushing behind his lover’s ears. He watched Crowley through half-lidded eyes, contemplating the various methodologies for getting the fastidious asshole out of the damn suit.

"There will be some in the breadbin... but what _did_ I do to deserve someone as pretty as you who can cook, too?" His eyes closed under the fingers on his ears, and he pushed into the touches like a greedy little kitten. "Better be careful or I'll want to eat out of order..." 

Especially because the nicely silky robe made for a slippery layer between them, and was nice to grind into. Damn, but it was distracting. He wanted nothing more than to peel that layer back off and go back to touching. "Maybe you should sit in my lap while we eat? You know. For old time's sake..." 

“What you did was be an infuriating bastard and also the sweetest asshole, which is why I don’t actually know how to cook. This is just heating things up.” Cas winked and rummaged in the cupboards for plates, leaning over rather gratuitously while transferring the eggs and bacon to them. He wasn’t sure that could actually make it through breakfast, empty, growling stomach be damned.

Crowley wasn’t entirely sure what words were just said because he was busy staring up the back of the robe to see if… “Hmmm?” Perhaps he should help out. He got the knives and forks and went over to the dining table. “Well. You’re good at heating things up. I - yes. Bacon.” Crowley, are you ever going to be able to hold a conversation with him? Probably not. He was too disgustingly pretty and amenable and… “I think you did something to my head. I’m not normally like this.”

They could do this, it was going to be fine. They just to make it to the…

“Bread?” Cas asked, cautiously, praying that it wouldn’t turn out to be phallus-shaped. He grabbed the freshly made pot of coffee and prayed for enlightenment. Or forbearance. Or something because his boner was starting to poke out of the too-short robe and Crowley was still wearing the suit. Bastard.

Thankfully the bread was pre-sliced (because he only got artisan bread in when he was planning on a good night in with some wine to go with the cheese and usually a DVD or two) and he decided to slap his food into the bread in order to eat it faster. “You want yours sandwich style or do you want little toastie soldiers to dance in your egg?”

Cas sipped his coffee aggressively and burned his tongue.

“Are you proposing a little bread-man stripper routine, as a nutritious part of my breakfast?” It was entirely possible that the two of them were incapable of adult behavior. Unless this _was_ adult behavior? And didn’t Crowley offer his lap earlier, in lieu of a chair? He grabbed the bread out of Crowley’s hand, the brush of their fingers feeling electric and too warm, and then tossed it with exasperation onto his plate. “I can’t!” he threw up his hands. “I can’t act like a normal person with you at such close proximity! I can’t get your cock out of my mind, and I’d rather have it somewhere else. Ugh.”

Crowley looked rather pleased with himself at that admission of lust. He was struggling, too. He grabbed hold of Cas by the waist and tried to tug him into his lap again. “Well… maybe if we take the edge off the sexual tension we’ll be able to focus long enough to put other things in our mouths?” The waggle of eyebrows was downright lewd. “I’m happy to put my dick wherever you want it, love.” And his hands. Which were trying to slide up and under that robe, to grope him. Oh yes. This was a better idea than food or even coffee. He was _very_ awake now.

“Right,” Cas exhaled straight into Crowley’s neck, running the flat of his tongue along the ligaments there. Apparently Crowley had shaved for him; he was going to try not to let that go to his head. “Because I don’t want you to think I’m only in it for the sex. Unless you’re only in it for the sex?” Oh for fuck’s sakes, Castiel, stop being so needy! He reached over towards his plate to cover up his embarrassment and shoveled the bacon into his mouth. Crowley’s hands were already cupping his ass - which was, in itself, a choking hazard.

“Oh no. Not just the sex. It just - the sex is really good…” Yes. Very good. “I like other things, too, I promise.” Like sex. Damnit! He yanked and dragged Cas into his lap, then grabbed his sandwich and took several healthy bites from it. He was going to need all the strength he could get. For. Things. He held the sandwich up to offer some to Cas. He was going to need strength too because Crowley wanted to bang him over the table and… stop! Stop it! 

Cas took a bite, which, of course, why wouldn’t it, somehow led to his teeth on Crowley’s fingers. And then his tongue, and then he was licking stray pieces of bread and yolk from his entire hand and moaning louder than he expected to.

“Fucking hell, Crowley,” he whimpered and bit the thumb in his mouth. He was a very impatient boy. A very impatient boy who had been made to _wait_ and _be patient_ much longer than he’d ever had to wait for anything in his entire (albeit rather spoiled) existence. But patience was not one of Castiel’s virtues. He was accustomed to know what he wanted, and then going for it. “You’re not keeping the suit on this time, you’re just not.”

“I might be persuaded,” he agreed, his free hand sliding up a thigh and… oh yes. Someone was happy to see him. He decided to wrap a handful of the sheer, silky fabric around the nicely thickening present he found for himself and start to stroke. The rest of the sandwich went in in one go, and any further speech was muffled by the noisy eating sounds. His messy hand was presented for more lickings, so that it could then be used. 

Cas had already slung his leg over so that he was straddling Crowley’s lap, the robe falling over around him, which, to be fair, was being barely held in place by the silky excuse for a belt in the first place. He leaned backwards, encountering the solid tabletop behind him. It felt sturdy; it might do. He wanted to respond, possibly to utter some kind of protest at his lover’s recalcitrance, but Crowley’s hands had a way of making him forget every language he’d ever learned, including his mother tongue. He reached out and grabbed the tie, pulling the other man closer so that he could present his mouth to be penetrated along with the rest of his orifices.

“You make me so hot, baby,” Cas whispered against Crowley’s lips. “I’d do anything…” And then Crowley’s hand made him forget words again. “Uhhhh….” 

The table wasn’t all that messy, he could just move that plate and then it would be fine…. no? Yes. Definitely. It needed christening. By shifting and slamming him down into it, making him perch on the edge, and grinding up against him. “...or I could just fuck you here…”

He might not be able to talk, but he wasn’t about to let Crowley win _completely_ , Cas thought, throwing his head back and presenting his neck to the other man’s mouth.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he decided, and unknotted the silly little thing that was the only barrier to Cas’ modesty right now, which promptly slithered to the table below him and probably wound up covered in egg (but he couldn’t give two shits). He was all too happy to take the offered throat, too, biting up and down as hands went to thighs to tug them up and over his hips.

It was so hard to concentrate on his own ploy with Crowley’s mouth and hands all over him like that. His lips felt scalding against Castiel’s neck, his tongue did wicked, ungodly things. And he was naked now - typical. But while the clothing disparity was sending all sorts of kinks through his mind, it was skin he wanted. And more than skin, he just wanted to peel Crowley like an onion, even if that meant he was going to end up the one crying.

He pressed his thighs like a vise around Crowley’s hips, pulling him closer, his fingers quickly running along the seams of his tailored shirt, undoing the little pearly buttons in their wake, yanking the material out of Crowley’s slacks before the older man could realize what had even happened until it was too late. Cas snuck the flat of his palm inside the unfastened shirt and felt warm, pliant flesh beneath his fingers.

“Mine,” he gasped, sinking blunt fingernails into the exposed skin.

Fuck, fuck, fuck but that hurt. Crowley hissed something not-English against Cas’ throat, his own fingernails digging in the soft underneath of the thighs he was holding in place. Cas was clearly determined to get him naked too, and he was half-forgetting why he thought it was a bad idea. A really bad idea. Due to him not being twenty-something any more. It wasn’t that he considered thirty…. something… _old_ , it was… he wasn’t the spry thing he’d been in his youth and… well he was no real competition. There wouldn’t be anyone begging for _him_ to come to their booth, if he jumped on the stage against the likes of Cas, Dean or even the too-sombre Sam. 

His hands went for Cas’ wrists - the knee-jerk reaction being to try to make him stop - but he forced himself not to flip out (too much) and just… held on. He liked the word, though, so much so that he pressed his lips to Cas’ mouth to suck the tongue and speech right out of him. He felt _dizzy_ with need, and the cold air against the warm hands was making things even more confusingly potent. 

Cas groaned softly into the searching kiss. He could sense the tentativeness in his lover’s movements, although he couldn’t fathom the reason for it. Wasn’t it abundantly clear how much Cas desired him? How utterly ridiculously helpless he was just from being in his presence?

“Let me,” he repeated the same words from the club the night before. “I won’t hurt you,” he added, knowing somehow that Crowley would understand - it wasn’t the physical pain he meant, the pain that he had already inflicted with his clever, slender fingers. But Crowley was safe with him, couldn’t he see that? He pulled at the jacket again until it was in danger of ripping. “Let me. I love you. Dammit…”

It wasn’t as if he could ask the guy to move in and make breakfast and love him and stay with him forever and expect he could continue to wear clothes all the time, no matter how impractical. It was silly and foolish and ridiculous and apparently really quite important for his ego. Crowley swallowed. His throat sort of hurt. Fuck. Couldn’t they just pretend it was really kinky and go for it? Lots of people liked to have sex fully dressed. He wore nice clothes and…

“...alright,” he said, reluctantly, letting go of the wrists and instead distracting his hands by sliding over that washboard of a stomach, ticklingly gentle. He stared resolutely down at it to keep himself distracted from the pink colour his face was currently going. “But you’re not to find it funny.”

Cas’ eyes got very wide with the dawning of understanding. “Stupid,” he muttered, and pulled Crowley into another kiss, trying to tell him with his lips what he was apparently unable to communicate in words. “So dumb,” he added, coming up for air, and proceeding to trail his lips over the other man’s chin, jaw, nibbling on his ears, kissing his eyelids along with those long eyelashes that he always thought were so surprisingly delicate for a man of Crowley’s disposition. His distraction tactics must have been working because the jacket finally fell to the floor and the shirt was giving up the last fight, as its corners were finally completely untucked.

He ran his eyes and his hand down from Crowley’s neck all the way to his hips, which were still stubbornly encased by his slacks, feeling the heat radiating from the exposed skin under his fingers. It felt better like this. Closer. More real. He could feel the beating of Crowley’s heart, feel him holding his breath, like the idiot that he was. And Cas loved him all the more for it.

“Nice tats, Daddy,” he whispered, wetting his lips with his own tongue. The dragons had been an unexpected surprise.

“I was young and stupid, too, once,” Crowley admitted with a little smile. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Boss was furious, though.” He was holding his stomach in and it was a bit difficult to breathe because of it. He wasn’t wholly comfortable with being examined, so he decided the best thing to do would be to change the focus again. Like… pushing Cas back onto the - oops there went the plates with the food and there was going to be stuff to clean up later, followed by the newspaper and the tablemats and… fuck it he shoved everything to the floor so it was just them and the hardwood table.

He climbed on after him, hips sashaying as he moved to straddle his lover, bare skin sliding and then lying flush as he smiled down at his captive audience. “Are you going to finish the job? Because… if you’re doing this you might as well go the whole way…” He was propped on his hands which meant he couldn’t use them to help out, but he _could_ tug on his ear between his teeth and suck until his cheeks hollowed from the effort. He could also rub the fabric of his slacks all over Cas’ lap like he was giving a very ineffectual, somehow backwards lapdance. In fact, he thought that was a great idea. It had been a while since he’d dropped to his knees and used his ass to torment anyone, and from the way he could roll those hips and all but jerk him off with the inseam of his trousers? Yeah. He still had it. At least a little. (And it was ruining good slacks.) 

_Of course_ he was wearing a belt. Cas puffed his cheeks in resigned exasperation. Why wouldn’t a sane man be wearing a leather belt in his own home if he was already insisting on wearing a suit and tie? And belt buckles, it turned out, were real bitches when it came to trying to undo them while some evil spawn of Satan was rubbing your cock off with… apparently some hidden parts of his ass that had no business existing.

“I’d _love_ to finish the job,” Cas complained, “But someone decided to put every damn article of clothing and accessory known to man on this morning! If I find out you’re also wearing a chastity belt under this thing, I’m leaving,” he threatened, finally managing to yank the belt out of the loops and rushing to undo Crowley’s fly. As soon as there was some slack between the band of his pants and skin, Cas hurried to sneak his hand down, past his briefs (of course he was wearing more layers - couldn’t just be going commando to the formal occasion of bloody _breakfast_ ), to get a glorious handful of ass. “Oh fuck yesssss…. It’s like an impenetrable fortress, not a man!” He was using his feet to aid in the somewhat frantic rush to pull Crowley’s pants down faster. “I forbid you to wear so many clothes!” he growled and attacked Crowley’s mouth again with wrathful kisses.

"After so many years nearly naked even _you_ might take to clothes again," Crowley sniped back, snatching the words between kisses. He kicked off the last bit of clothing from his leg, leaving him in just the plain black socks. If Cas wanted _those_ off he'd have to do it himself. "And don't tempt me. I have a few waistcoats and I think my suspenders still fit... If the elastic didn't perish..."

But now he was naked (save for the socks) and he could - with a little effort - slide his heavy dick alongside his lover's. His eyes went a little hazy when he did, biting his lip in concentration. "You know the lube was in my inside pocket, don't you? That's one benefit to clothes over not: pockets. So if you want bangers in your mash you're going to have to let me up for a minute."

Cas pouted but unclenched his thighs. "Well... Do what you must. So long as you do me." He smiled complacently - he was going to enjoy watching that ass bend over.

“Insufferable,” Crowley declared with one last stolen kiss, then he deliberately slid backwards off Cas to let his stocking feet hit the hardwood floor. He had to resist the urge to neaten up the pile of clothes like a vampire faced with spilt marbles, and just crouch and rifle through the pockets to find the little pocket-sized lube bottle he’d secreted there. Then he stood up triumphantly brandishing it. “See. Prepared this time.”

He walked up to the table again, and urged Cas to lift his legs up onto his shoulders, walking backwards so his ass was off the surface. He poured a generous amount of the sticky fluid into his left hand, resnapped the bottle shut and placed it on the table. Then he decided to be a bit of a bastard, first, and started to smear Cas’ balls and straining dick lovingly. He took one in each hand and rolled them over his palms like Chinese worry-balls, amused by how heavy they already were. “Not quite so blue this morning, but getting there…” 

A tug. Another tug. Then his hand went flat and pressed the proudly saluting boner down into his belly. He’d not had a chance to admire it last night properly because he’d been more than a little drunk and definitely more than a little out of his head with lust. Now he could appreciate it in all its glory, and run his hand from root to tip and squeeze at the cockhead and try to work out what would make Cas’ toes curl. Yes. Yes he was besotted. Yes he was sure this was the best cock he’d ever let run through his fingers. No, he wasn’t sorry, either. 

“People as pretty as you ought to be banned. Or at the very least fined.” Crowley pouted. He was far too pretty and he was never going to get any work done ever again because all he was going to think about was this - the feel of that delicious asshole opening to greet his finger as he slowly fucked him with it. The squelchy little noises that just made him harder. The shake in his thigh or the colour on his face or the way his lips parted and begged to be kissed, bitten, sucked… _Christ_... he jammed a second finger in, then a third before he’d even had time to accommodate, fucking him with an increasingly uncontrolled hand. “I’m never. Ever going to get tired of you. You and your stupid dead languages and your stupid ways of making me want you. Your stupid, pretty, _fuck-me_ dances…” And then it sort of hit him in the pit of his stomach that Cas had started being _good_ at it when he was _watching_ and he pulled his hand out and pushed in before the headrush of that killed him. “FUCK. YOU.”

"Oooohhhhh yesssss.... thank you, Daddy," Cas breathed out, swallowing Crowley's cock up with his eager asshole. He didn't remember ever being so turned on before. The drive to be desired, taken, owned, torn apart was new and all-consuming. He didn't realize how much he wanted to lose control until now, surrendering his body to his lover like that. He watched all the emotions playing across Crowley's face with heavily lidded eyes, loving the way every nerve in his body strained from the older man's touches. And then he shut his eyes and squeezed around the cock inside of him, wanting somehow to pull his lover closer, further, higher. His hand strained towards Crowley's body. "Too far," he gasped. "Want you..." He needed to feel the heat of Crowley's entire body against him, nothing else would be enough. Not this time.

Crowley choked out something unintelligible but happy, because damn but he felt good, he felt good around his cock, and this time he had the leverage and the position to drive hard into him, instead of sit there and let Cas ride him. This time he could put his hands on the table and press down with his weight - bending Cas’ legs almost up to his shoulders - and slam in until his balls slapped noisily against his ass. His eyes were lost and manic, his face red with how goddamn much he wanted this, and he grabbed tight hold of Cas’ hips as he tried to simultaneously drill him through the table and get close enough for Cas to hold him too.

“Want… fuck you so hard you can’t walk… tight little hole so fucking greedy for my cock… just want me to split you open and bruise you from all the fucking, don’t you? Pretty little angel whore all mine and _no one else’s_ , should never have let you dance in public should have kept you for _me_ you _filthy_ little cockslut I _love_ you…” He was already struggling to keep control, and he wasn’t even sure where the stream of degrading nastiness was coming from, he just knew each word he snarled out made Cas quiver on his dick in the most delicious way imaginable and seemed to reach into his gut and _yank_ somewhere low and primal and hungry. 

Cas was genuinely forgetting his own name. "God, yes, yes... thank you, Daddy." That was dirty too; and he loved that. All thought and cogency had abandoned him in favor of soft, fuck-out noises, that were closer to mewling than actual human communication. He had never been into dirty talk before, but then again, he'd never heard Crowley open his damn mouth before either. And _by God_ , the guy really knew how make sure no one ever accused him of being all talk.

Fingers clawing desperately into the flesh of Crowley's ass as he pulled him closer, harder, _yes, yes, take me, tear me apart_ , all desire conveyed in inhuman howls and the need to be thoroughly and permanently impaled. Cas didn't want to know where he ended and where Crowley began, the heady scent of their sweat and sex mingling in the air, filling his nostrils as Crowley's words filled his ears. He wanted to come apart at the seams just so that his lover could put him back together again. He wanted to die, stabbed to death by Crowley's dick. He wanted...

"God! Please! Don't stop, don't...."

“Put your hand on your dripping whore-prick,” Crowley growled at him, eyes never leaving his face. “Wrap your fist around it and jerk it off like you used to when you were just imagining me in your ass. Show me how you pleasure yourself when I’m not here to do it. Show me how you scratch that sick little itch in your balls. I want you to come screaming my name, so I can fuck the breath out of you until you wish you could pass out…” 

He was glad he’d rested well. Very glad. Because it meant he had the stamina and strength to fuck him like he meant it, banging the table noisily and keep dragging his hips back when Cas started to slide too far away. He wanted him to stay where he was so he could continue to shove every last inch of his dick in him. “Wank like you mean it, like I’m not here and you wish I was. Wank yourself blind so I can feel you shatter on my dick _and keep fucking you even though you’ve shot your load all over yourself, you sticky, cum-soaked brat_.” There was something oddly liberating about not having to censor the pure filth that rolled through his head, and Crowley was getting off on how it was affecting Cas.

"Oh _God_ , yes Daddy!" Cas was going to come so much and so high that it would probably hit the ceiling. He hoped Crowley had a cleaning lady. Then again, he felt sorry for her, having to clean his goop off the ceiling like that.... "God, yes, wanted you so bad..." he breathed out, wrapping a shaking hand around his pulsing and leaking cock. He wasn't going to last like this. "Wanted you inside me... just like this... running that filthy mouth of yours.... _fuck_... Crowley... I'm gonna cum so hard... so.... " Yes, yes, there it was, cresting, an orgasm crescendo, about to break all over them both, and then he was coming so hard that his entire body shook with release, his cries of ecstasy frozen on his opened lips.

Jesus fucking hellfire on a rollercoaster in a tea cosy but apparently he now had a fetish for being called ‘Daddy’, which was new, but it didn’t sound creepy the way Cas screamed it. Nothing he could say would sound creepy right now, not when his voice did that _disgusting_ wavering but proud thing and… _damn_ but he looked _gorgeous_ when he was in the throes of ecstasy; he looked so damned pleased with himself and so damned happy and just… perfection. Perfection in a meatsuit. 

Crowley bit his lip hard, putting all of his attention into _not_ coming in the tight, squeezing channel, because he wanted to fuck every last little ounce of pleasure out of him. But his breathing was getting harder, his hands getting sloppier, and eventually he couldn’t last any longer at all. “Take _this_ you cum-hungry _monster_ ,” he growled, a voice that brooked no argument whatsoever. And then with a last grunt of victory he was coming too, messy and so hard he thought they’d be able to hear his pulse hammering through his dick. He grunted as the feeling ebbed, and his hands went onto the table, his knees locking to stop himself from just collapsing. Well. Other than collapsing forwards against his lover’s chest. He was utterly, utterly spent. “...fuck.”

There was a pounding in Castiel's head that made him feel as if he was simultaneously dying and being reborn. He was molten lava, he was lemonade on a humid and sticky July afternoon, he was a dragonfly buzzing overhead, a hummingbird lost in a thrush of freesia. Everything was slow, warm, _naked_ and right with the world. His arms and legs were still wrapped around Crowley, and that felt right too. He opened his mouth to say something and what came out was Catullus:

_“Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris?  
Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior."_

He smiled and pressed his arms more firmly around his lover's exhausted form.

Crowley rubbed his face affectionately against Cas’ sticky torso, tongue stealing out to lap at the mess he’d made. He didn’t want to move at all - wasn’t sure he was able to - but when Cas spoke in tongues he lifted his head to peer at him.

“...was that you ordering a shipment of cattle and some flagons of ale, or were you serenading me?” Not that he’d be able to tell the difference, but it sure sounded pretty. And it made all sorts of weird tightening things happen in his chest. He wrapped his arms up around Cas, fingers drawing idle little circles (and not, under any circumstance, little love hearts).

Cas laughed a little silent laugh, his own fingers stealing over Crowley's to thread in between them mid-doodle. 

"I thought I could do better than last time," he muttered into his beloved's hair. "It's a poem by Catullus," he explained and haltingly, even shyly, provided the translation, " _I hate and I love, you ask why I do this, I do not know, but I feel... and I am tormented._ " He pressed their fingers tighter together. "Mostly I love," he added.

“You’re insane,” Crowley said accusingly, but he was beaming almost wide enough to split his face in two. “And I love you too. You evil, cunning linguist.” He didn’t even care that it was an awful pun, rubbing his thumb over the hand he was holding onto. 

“You should go to grad school. You should learn all those languages. And then you should come home and recite them to me as I fuck you over every piece of furniture I own.” He swallowed, wondering if he… “...move in? Maybe? If… if you want to….” Perhaps he was being forward, but he really didn’t think he should try anything slow from now on. “If you won’t be disowned again for doing it.”  
"I hope you realize," Castiel used his most deadpan voice, "that I have not actually read over any of the contracts in that suitcase. I'll have to check the fine print. If right next to the 'No more stripping' clause there is also a subclause of 'No shacking up with owners of strip clubs' then we might run into a bit of a problem." He chuckled and placed a chaste kiss on top of Crowley's messed up mop of hair.

He had postponed having to reply with his joke, but the question had been a sincere one, he knew. And could he really do this? Move in? With Crowley? To fall asleep next to him every night, to wake up to the sound of his voice, to the touch of his lips every morning? To maybe, eventually, even have normal (sexless) breakfast and normal (sexless) conversations, like real couples?

"Are you sure about this?" he asked, feeling his heart speed up again at the prospect. Not having to say good-bye. Well, not for long, anyways. "I mean, you do realize that I will probably insist on upgrading all your electronics _and_ having the Winchesters over for dinner. Right?"

“If we can kick them out afterwards so I can screw you on the couch, then they can come over for dinner,” Crowley said, magnanimously. He was feeling a little light-headed at the idea of it, and maybe it was insane, but maybe they’d done enough dicking around winding one another up. He knew they fit together, he knew there was probably nothing worse they could do to one another than drive each other out of their minds with unresolved sexual tension… was there even anything worse they could do?

“I mean, as long as it’s not contractually impossible. If… if you’d like to…” He tried not to look all lovesick puppy but it was hard. “You don’t have to decide right now.” Because maybe asking him after he’d fucked him and with his dick still rammed in his ass was possibly emotional and sexual blackmail, after all.

“I should probably be more freaked out about this, but, honestly, right now… I don’t see the downside,” Cas nuzzled against Crowley again. This was probably also cheating somehow. Like the way he always melted his brain and took away all reason. Normal couples, like the kind he wanted to be a part of, probably didn’t make important life decisions in a post-coital slump. “So long as you realize that if you start pissing me off again, like by not putting out, I’m leaving.”

“Why would I ever want to not-put-out?” He made a grumpy little kitten face at the suggestion. “The only reason I didn’t bend you over my damn desk was because I didn’t want to abuse my position of privilege or force you into sexual slavery. However if you want to _volunteer_ for sexual slavery, that’s something else entirely….”

“I’ve never really done this before,” Castiel confessed. “Not really. Not like… this. I mean, the whole nine yards: relationships, cohabitation… sexual slavery,” he added coyly. Then he exhaled with a bit of frustration. “What I’m trying to say is… I don’t want to fuck this up. I really… You actually…. Fuck.” He tried to wiggle out from underneath Crowley because there wasn’t any way to continue having this conversation from his current position.

“Hold up, sunshine…” He slid back onto his feet - pulling out from where he’d been still buried in him - and wondered if maybe they should be getting clean or dressed or… something. Then he held his hand out to help Cas up, and - oh fuck it - gave him a brief hug because he could. “Maybe we should shower and talk about it… I mean we could talk about it later. I… I don’t want to push you into it. Really. I just… I really like you, and that sounds lame as all hell but it’s true. And I want to make it work. Properly. Not just wild monkey sex… all of it. And if it means we try doing the whole ‘go steady’ stuff for a while before you commit then… we’ll do that.” 

There. That was… a little less stalkery perhaps. Even if he did just want to tie him to the bed and not let him… okay, stop thinking like that. It wasn’t helpful.

He couldn’t help it, he had to slide his naked and pleasantly sore body up against Crowley’s again as he was finally pulled upright and off the table. It was insane, the whole thing, but surely between the two of them they’d sort it out.

“Yeah. Shower,” he nodded. “And don’t even think about putting a suit back on today.”

***

**Eight years later…**

It had taken some doing, but all the old gang came back to celebrate for Castiel’s dissertation defense. Sam and Dean’s budding car-repair place was doing well, Michael’s modelling career was standing him in good stead with the few acting job’s he’d started to pick up, Gabriel was running some venture with Kevin as the technological brains of it and the only members of the old guard still working at the club were the ever-present Ellen and Bobby, with Balthazar now doing the day to day running of it. 

Hell, of course, had gone up in a cloud of smoke. Not literally - because Crowley wasn’t actually out to torch his competition - but Lucifer had left the area and things were ticking over smoothly.

There was an endless parade of hugs and kisses and more than a few attempts to pinch Cas’ backside and Balthazar insisted on something called a yard of ale, but finally the evening was drawing to a close. 

More hugs were exchanged. More promises to keep in touch. The dancers did their last number and the punters all went home.

For old time’s sake Ellen and Balthazar let Crowley and Cas linger in their customary seats at the back of the bar.

“Well, Doctor Novak,” Crowley said, leaning in to pull some errant strands of confetti from his lover’s wayward hair. “I bet you never expected to celebrate your becoming a world expert in extinct tongues here, when you first had your little dream…” 

The music was turned off, the lights now normal strip-lighting, not the psychedelic dancing flashes. He still had his hand resting on Cas’, on the bar. Eight years gone and he was still as smitten as the day he’d first danced for him. He smiled warmly at his partner, glad he’d taken a chance on that gawky youth who had made such a fool of himself on his first attempt to impress him.

“Doctor Novak,” Cas leaned back against Crowley’s shoulder. “Has a certain ring to it. Although… You know I never really wore my name very comfortably. I was thinking… Doctor MacLeod has an even better ring to it.” The look of confused consternation on Crowley’s face was priceless. Cas figured he was probably cursing the day he ever let Cas see his birth certificate while simultaneously trying to understand where this was leading. “And speaking of rings…” Cas climbed into Crowley’s lap with the same spry agility of yesteryears. “Don’t you think it’s about time that you put one on for me?” He smiled almost coyly and produced a small box from his coat pocket. He wasn’t one to let his surprise party pass without adding a surprise of his own. “Crowley? My love, will you marry me?”

Crowley's expression started off confused, then minorly irritated (would Cas _never_ let his crappy 'there can be only one' name go?) and then made a detour to outright shock and ended up settling for absolutely delighted. The arms around his waist tightened and he first buried his face against Cas' neck before he pulled back to beam at him.

"Castiel, you infuriating love of my life, I will marry you in a heartbeat and not regret it a single day..." He peered down at the ring in the box, smiling like a goof.

"Buf I'm changing my name by deed poll, because I'm sure as hell not letting those bastards know it, and you have to promise you're not going to leap out of the cake and dance in front of everyone... your dances are only for me, now." 

That was enough bloody talking. He grabbed hold of his fiance's face and kissed him until it was impossible to kiss him any longer.

Castiel felt the pounding of his blood through all his pulse points. He was elated and dizzy, like the first time he realized his desire was returned. Maybe they'd go to Rome for their honeymoon. Maybe he could speak Latin to Crowley underneath the Arch of Severus Septimus. They might even not get arrested. He really looked forward to the rest of their lives. 


End file.
